


convalescence

by coastcitytourism



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Cancer, Fluff, Illness, M/M, Medical Jargon, Slow Build, coastcity also butchers the french language, coastcity does research and goes crazy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 08:35:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 32,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22358746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coastcitytourism/pseuds/coastcitytourism
Summary: They are not invincible.
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 77
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kakkakerssi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakkakerssi/gifts).

> sorry for the shite publication schedule guys, i've been so busy with college (uni for those of u on the other side of the atlantic!), a new job, and i've had the flu the past week so finding time to write has been hard af.  
dedicated to kakkakerssi, without Max & Pierre i never would have found the confidence to even try writing the nuances of illness (chronic or in this case otherwise), but your stuff is so good it finally motivated me to get of my ass and finally do the research and just. Write The Shit.  
without spoiling too much, this will include the ups and downs of major illness includng diagnosis, treatment, and long term consequences/effects. also idk how many chapters it'll be yet bc i havent decided how to wrap it up- ALSO ALSO i am very bad at developing actual real plot so this will probably mostly be just little vignettes that are related rather than a well plotted or timed story.  
as always, this is a work of pure fiction. please leave it here on ao3 and dont share elsewhere, thanks!

Pierre is sure he could never bear living in Monaco, but he would certainly be lying if he said that it's not beautiful. Nine times out of ten he'd rather not be awake before noon, but the mid-morning sun casting long shadows against the carpet stained orange with light in the living room of Charles's apartment is pretty enough that he almost doesn't mind the hour.

He shoves his laptop into his backpack hastily, one eye keeping careful track of the time- Pyry will probably kick his ass if he misses another flight. There's not nuch left for him to do in Monaco- his bags are packed, his rental car parked on the curb outside the building, gas tank full and awaiting it's return to the airport rental facility in Nice. For once in his life, Pierre has been truly punctual- a blessing and a curse, because he still has time to burn before he has to leave but Charles is still sleeping like the dead in the bedroom. Pierre sighs, only slightly irritated that his boyfriend gets to sleep in and he doesn't, and pulls his phone out, deciding that Instagram is the best option to waste his time on.

Pierre's on his sixth or seventh recommended video- usually random craft accounts or a Buzzfees recipe set to cheerful music- when a long shadow creeps into his peripheral, and moments later a warm body leans over the back of the couch and wraps arms around his own shoulders.

Charles yawns and then presses a soft kiss to the sensitive skin between Pierre's ear and jaw, eliciting a shiver from the Frenchman. They're both quiet, enjoying the soothing warmth of sunshine flowing through the sliding glass door and windows and the presence of one another.

"You're up early," Charles finally murmurs, burying his face into Pierre's hair and ignoring the grumbling as he messes it up, "Already dressed too," he says again, voice muffled by soft strands of hair, "Didn't think you were that eager to get away from me," he jokes, smiling as Pierre shakes his head exasperatedly.

"Flight to L.A. is at 3:30 and Pyry will actually kill me if I miss it," Pierre replies, sinking a bit further back into the sofa and Charles's embrace, "Otherwise, I'd still be asleep."

"Yeah, I know," Charles laughs, finally letting go of Pierre and standing up to stretch his joints, enjoying the satisfying crack of all of his bones. "When will you be home again?" he continues, reaching an arm across his chest and pulling it close, loosening the muscles of his shoulder. 

"Let me think..." Pierre starts, pulling up the calendar on his phone, "I'll be in the States until almost the end of the month, and then I'll be back to Italy for a week, and then I fly to Austria for the car reveal and some Red Bull stuff. So, um, beginning of next month?" He winces. "I'll be between Bologna and Faenza."

"Maybe I'll come see you," Charles wonders aloud, ambling across the sunlit hardwood floor of the living room and reaching for Pierre's hand to pull him off the couch, "You said you leave at 3:30? Let me make you breakfast."

"Don't burn the place down or poison me, please," Pierre smiles, but complies and follows Charles into the kitchen anyway, finding a space on the counter to lean on as Charles shuffles through the cupboard in search of something to make.

"Aha!" he finally exclaims, much to Pierre's amusement, pulling a box of instant pancake mix out of the cabinet. Pierre manages a bemused smile, especially when Charles gives him a silly wink and gets to work measuring water to make the batter.

In the end, Charles massively overestimates the amount of pancakes they need- and Pierre can only laugh when the stack of pancakes grows from an inch tall to nearly eight inches tall.

"Well, hope you're hungry," Charles states, sounding mildly embarrassed as he presents Pierre with a plate full of dripping syrup and fluffy pancake.

Pierre manages a gentle chuckle, multitasking as he cuts into a pancake with the side of his fork. "Sorry to disappoint, _Charlot_, but I've had less of an appetite than usual lately. You're going to have to eat all those extra ones on your own," he says, shoving a forkful of the food into his mouth.

"You're lucky I eat like an animal, then," Charles grins, but then his face grows a bit more serious, "Do you know why you haven't been as hungry lately? You're not sick or anything, right?"

Pierre rolls his eyes and dips a piece of the pancake into the syrup pooled on his plate. "No, mother, I'm not ill," he starts, voice dripping with sarcasm, "Just been working out less lately since we're in the offseason. I'm sure it'll go back to normal once we start up again."

"Oh," Charles replies simply, dragging out the single syllable. "Yeah, that makes sense. It's a shame you're not so hungry, because I'm an amazing chef and these pancakes are delicious. You must feel so lucky to have such an amazing, talented boyfriend."

"Oh yes," Pierre snorts, "So glad he knows how to read the instructions on a box and follow them. I don't know how I lived without this gourmet cuisine-" he smiles, standing to go drop his now empty plate into the sink while Charles continues to ravenously shovel his food down, "Are you done stroking your own ego now, babe?"

"Yup," Charles mumbles, but his mouth is full of breakfast so it's muffled and sounds a bit more like "_yef_". He swallows quickly, finally rising to bring his own plate into the kitchen, where Pierre is scrubbing the pan Charles used.

"Hey," he says, wrapping his arms around Pierre's middle and resting his head against the Frenchman's broad shoulder, "You don't have to clean up after me," he whispers.

"I don't mind-"

"No, Pierre, I mean you need to go before you miss your flight. It's already one th-"

"_Fuck_!" Pierre exclaims, dropping the pan into the sink and squirming out of Charles grasp, leaving the Monegasque standing by the sink, eyes twinkling with mirth at his circumstances. He rushes into the living room and throws his backpack over his shoulder, yanking the handle of his rolling suitcase up to the proper height.

Charles follows him at a much more reasonable pace, flops down into a bar chair and lets Pierre continue his chaos.

"Wallet?" he asks, deciding to actually be somewhat helpful, "Phone and charger? Passport?"

"Yes, yes, and yes. I think..." Pierre trails off, tapping his pockets to ensure the car keys are there, "I think that's everything?"

"If not, I can always just send it to you," Charles shrugs, standing up, "No big deal. Don't make yourself even more late worrying about it," he says, reaches out to squeeze Pierre's bicep and tug him in, pressing a rather hard kiss to the Frenchman's lips.

"Love you," Pierre breathes when they separate, "I'll see you soon?"

"Love you too. And yeah. FaceTime me when you get to your hotel?"

"Of course," Pierre murmurs, leaning up to press a softer peck of the lips to Charles's cheek, "I'll miss you."

"You'll be back in Italy before you know it," Charles smiles, urging Pierre to the door, "Now go. I don't want to have to testify against Pyry in court."

"Goodbye, Charles," Pierre says, voice soft as he steps out if the door's threshold and into the sunlight, "see you soon."

"Bye love, be safe!" Charles exclaims, and watches as Pierre haphazardly throws his luggage into the boot of his rented Clio, watches as the taillights disappear into the traffic of Monte-Carlo and beyond.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More domestic fluff. Promise the serious stuff will happen SOON. Also the chapters will be longer when that does happen!!

They were supposed to go out and do something- a date- but after Pierre had gotten home from his seat fit, the rain had started coming down hard enough to make driving seem like a Herculean task. Instead, they had both bundled up in sweats, Pierre made them dinner, and Charles got his ass kicked on FIFA. It wasn't quite as romantic as a candlelit dinner in an exclusive restuarant, but it was more than enough for Charles to be content. "Was the weather this shitty in Faenza?" Charles only sounds mildly irritated- he's sprawled out on the couch haphazardly, half of his body weight in Pierre's lap. 

"Nope," the Frenchman yawns, lazily hitting the menu button on the Playstation controller resting next to Charles's head on his lap, "Cold, but not raining like this," he continues, the whistling of wind against the windows and pound of rain against the walls punctuating his statement. "I miss L.A.," he says wistfully, recalling the warm California sunshine against his back. He didn't even pack a jacket for that trip; didn't need one.

"I know," Charles soothes, dropping his own controller onto the coffee table, "Cheer up. Maybe it'll snow tonight. It still hasn't in Monaco..." 

Pierre sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and closing his eyes. "I have to be in Faenza tomorrow," he murmurs, irritation tangible in his voice. "Supposed to have a meeting with all the engineers and then some last minute things with the PR team before Austria. I don't want to drive in that shit. I'd take the stupid rain over the snow."

Charles looks up, mildly startled by the change in Pierre's tone. He's always known Pierre to love the snow almost as much as he loves the sun- for the longest time, Charles's home screen had been a picture of Pierre leaning against a snow man nearly as tall as himself, smiling at the camera. They'd taken the picture in Rouen at Pierre's parents' house nearly two years ago, before Charles joined Ferrari and time together became a rare luxury rather than a guarantee. Pierre's return to Toro Rosso had at least given them more opportunities to be with each other- Charles often stayed in Bologna when he had commitments to attend during the day in Maranello- but each passing moment with one another was still a cherished one rather than an everyday routine.

"Have a bad day today?" Charles wonders aloud, reaching a hand under Pierre's warm hoodie to trace nonsensical patterns onto his stomach. "You're usually excited for snow, _cherí_." It's not the first time in the past few months Charles has noticed Pierre acting strangely out of character, not quite his normal, sometimes annoyingly (but always in an endearing way) positive self, but he usually has a good reason for it rather than just general grumpiness.

"I'm fine," Pierre sighs again, reaching his own hand out to tangle his fingers into Charles's hair, "Team stuff is all fine," he finishes before Charles gets the chance to ask about it. "Just tired. It's been a long day and I want the season to just start already. All this administrative crap is giving me headaches."

"Yeah," Charles whispers, "I understand." He's ready to be back in the car too, already more than sick of waiting for Barcelona to come around. 

"Do you leave for Austria tomorrow night or...?"

"Morning after," Pierre murmurs, removing his hand from Charles hair to run it through his own, "I have to pack when I get hone tomorrow, too."

Charles leans up, pushing himself onto his elbows and off of Pierre. "Let's go to bed, then," he quietly suggests, reaching for one of Pierre's hands and intertwining their fingers. He's not totally sure what time it is, but it's dark outside, and he'd rather go to bed early and let Pierre rest rather than deal with him growing increasingly irritable.

"It's only-" Pierre protests, but Charles is pulling him up onto his feet before he can check the time.

"It's nighttime and you're obviously tired. Come on," Charles says, pulling him into his bedroom. 

"I'm gonna get a shower," Charles continues, digging through one of the drawers of Pierre's dresser- the one on the very bottom, on the left side, the one that became his own drawer when he Pierre first started dating.

"Me too," Pierre says, finally starting to perk up, "We should save hot water," he suggests, tone of voice and crooked smile giving Charles all the implications he needs.

"Mm-" the Monegasque hums, crossing the bedroom and sliding his hands up under Pierre's hoodie, leaning in for a fleeting but passionate kiss, "Sounds great to me."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a great chapter but y'know gotta get thru the beginning of shittiness to get to the Deep Angst.

"And I need you to go engine six, mode three, engine six, mode three. Pierre, are you even listening to me?

Testing in Barcelona mercifully came quickly, and the team had quickly moved on from forcing Pierre and Dany to promote the rebranded Alpha Tauri to mostly focusing on the performance of the car; so far, all seemed well, and they had been solidly ahead of the Renaults all week. It wasn't hard to feel the sense of excitement exuding from the entire team, anticipation for a bright and successful season leaving the air in the garage practically buzzing.

Pierre Hamelin's accent in his ear snaps him out of his temporary hypnosis- he shakes his head quickly to clear the thickening mental fog. Barcelona is a track they've all run so many times that he's sure every single driver could race it in their sleep, but that still doesn't excuse him tuning out.

"Sorry, sorry," he replies, "Repeat the engine mode, please."

His race engineer sighs on the line. "Engine six, mode three," he repeats, voice tinged with irritation, "You need to focus, Pierre."

He does, but he doesn't want to admit it. Pierre's more than three-quarters of the way through with today's test schedule, he's sitting solidly in P4, he really doesn't understand what else the team wants from him. Impatience is eating away at the very core of his being; he swears it feels like the testing schedule has been stretched out three times its normal length, that he'd easily done thousands more laps than he normally would. _Just a few more_, he reassures himself, knowing that Dany will be back in the car for the next couple of days and then they could move on to the actual racing.

"Sainz is six behind you on a flying lap, Leclerc fifteen on a cool down. Max is four ahead about to start a flying lap; don't put pressure on him, please."

It's nothing out of the ordinary to have his race engineer tell him these kinds of things- in fact, it had been one of his biggest issues at Red Bull, that his race engineer there couldn't communicate effectively or clearly with him- and he really appreciates the other Pierre's constant feedback, but it's irritaing him right now, like a splinter just below the surface of his skin. He's been running laps all day, of course he knows how to check for everyone around him. He's fucking tired; what more info could the team possibly need?

"Yeah, I can see them. I got it. Leave me alone this lap," he says coolly. Pierre's not usually one to tell his team to fuck off, but something about today has made him far too impatient to deal with the engineers at present.

"Copy," his engineer sighs, "Remember charge off last corner."

Pierre stays silent on his side of the line. Of course he remembers. He doesn't think, doesn't need to, just presses the accelerator and crosses the line once more-

_Something happens. _

He turns his neck too fast, brakes too harshly, does something that his head is not a fan of in the slightest- all of the sudden the world is spinning.

"Good job, Pierre," he hears in the earpiece, but he's barely cognizant. The sound of his engineer is background din, his heart is pounding in his ears, he feels like he needs to stop the car immediately, even though he's in the middle of a cooldown lap.

"I'm-" he chokes into the mic, "I'm boxing. Now."

"Box confirmed. Is everything okay?" A pause on the other end if the radio; dear God Pierre hopes this isn't broadcast because the embarrassment will be too much to take. "Do you need out of the car?"

"Yeah," he manages, his vision going blurry from how much his head hurts, "Yes."

"Okay. Remember to switch off. Pyry will be in the garage waiting for you."

They roll the car into the garage- thankfully, one of the crew members has the forethought to close the doors behind it- and he's mostly operating on autopilot when he manages to crawl out of it, leaning heavily on the halo. Pierre can hear the team around him talking, but he's too focused on not passing out or throwing up in his helmet to hear them. Elbows trembling from where they're holding him against the car, he manages a few shuddery breaths with no rhythm.

It's Pyry's calm voice that finally breaks its way into his mind- from the equivalent of static on replay to "-erre, hey, come on, let's get you out of that helmet and suit. Hold on to me if you need to." Pyry steadies him with a hand on Pierre's shoulder and one on his lower back; together, they slowly stumble back into his driver room. Pierre gracelessly falls onto the sofa, Pyry holding onto both shoulders to keep him upright.

"Tip your head back for me if you can please, Pierre, let's get this helmet off you," Pyry says gently, and Pierre obliges- but it sends another sharp pain through his head. He gasps, hand clenching hard around Pyry's forearm in a deathgrip. Pyry fumbles with the straps quickly, deftly undoing them and gently pulling Pierre's helmet and balaclava off in one swift motion.

"Lay back, it's alright," he urges, "It's okay. What's hurting right now?" Pyry asks, concern etched across his face. He sets the helmet and HANS device on a side table, fumbles in the cabinet below the table and pulls out a bottle of Advil.

"My head," Pierre whispers, the throbbing in his temples slowly growing less debilitating, nausea easing when he clenches his eyes shut. "Can you turn the light off, please?" 

"Of course," Pyry flicks the switch, darkening the room exponentially, the only light remaining pouring in from the small and heavily filtered window. "Do you need me to take you to the medical center?"

"No!" Pierre manages at full volume, covering his hands fully with his face. He really doesn't need the whole paddock to know he's already sick, one week into testing. "No. It's getting better. I think," he inhales, "think I'm getting sick. Felt kind of funny yesterday, too." It's mostly true, he did feel strange the day before, but then again, he's felt off for a lot longer than a few days. _It's none of Pyry's business_, Pierre rationalizes, and he really doesn't need anyone from Red Bull telling him he's too weak to race. He's fine, he's sure of it- just needs to rest.

Pyry sighs and passes the pill bottle over, along with Pierre's water bottle. "If you are getting sick, or if this is a migraine," he starts, rests his hand across Pierre's forehead to check his temperature, "You need to stay hydrated."

"I know," Pierre says softly, "I'm tired, Pyry. My head hurts so bad, it makes me feel sick to my stomach."

"I understand," his trainer says simply, "Rest. I'm gonna go talk to the rest of the team to see if I can take you back to the hotel now."

"Okay. Thanks," Pierre manages to whisper, and before he knows it his eyes are closed and he's asleep.

He's not in his driver's room when he wakes up. He's not in his race suit. And Pierre is pretty damn sure that Pyry isn't sat in the bed behind him, stroking his hair.

"Mm," he hums, eyes bleary from being asleep as he turns over to look at who's with him. "Charles?"

"Hey. Feeling better?" Charles is curled up in sweatpants, looking tired himself but content to cradle Pierre's head in his lap.

Pierre is feeling better- no longer does it feel like a hot iron stabbing his brain as much as a dull and vague throb- but he still doesn't quite know how he ended up in pyjamas in his hotel room without any awareness.

"How did I..." the Frenchman whispers, even as Charles gives him a confused look, "When did wae leave the track?"

"You don't remember?" Charles asks gently but incredulously, looks startled when Pierre shakes his head. "You left early with Pyry. He texted me to let me know I should come see you when I got done too."

"Oh," is all that Pierre says, sinking back down into Charles's lap, enjoying the soothing feeling of Charles playing with his hair.

"Pyry says he thinks you had a migraine," Charles says in a rather matter-of-fact way, but cannot resist tacking his own ending on. "I've known you forever and you've never gotten a migraine before, Pierre. I don't..." he trails off, searching for words, "Is everything okay? You've been acting differently lately, too, I just want to make sure-"

"Charles. Nothing has changed. I just felt sick today, it happens," Pierre sighs, rolling his eyes a bit impatiently. He loves Charles more than anything else in the world, but sometimes the Monegasque likes to coddle him too much for his own tastes.

"Pierre," Charles tries, "You have been acting different. I just want to know if you need hel-"

"If you think I needed help don't you think I'd have already asked?" Pierre snaps, sitting up rapidly and steadying himself with one arm when the room spins for a moment, "Why is it that I'm the one that's been acting different but not you, huh? It's always about how I changed, but never you, right?"

"Pierre," Charles repeats, voice lower, "You know I'm only bringing this up because I care about you."

"You're treating me like I can't fucking take care of myself, Charles! I'm sick of it! I get a headache and all of a sudden I must be fucking dying, right?" Pierre lays his head back down, rolling over so his back is facing the Monegasque. "You can stay or you can go, I don't care," Pierre continues, "But we're not doing this right now."

Charles sighs, sliding his hand up Pierre's shirt and rubbing patterns onto his spine. He doesn't say anything else, knows Pierre won't listen, just resolves to stay.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter bc shit hits the fan!  
Also, listen this is a stupid question I know several of you are on the other side of the globe, y'all call it paracetamol instead of acetominophen right?? I know the brand name is Tylenol

He's fucking pissed. Pierre's not usually one to get too bent out of shape after track incidents- they happen, he gets it- but today has got his blood boiling.

The first race of the year, and he's already out- no thanks to Kevin- his car a debris field across the track. P8 to a DNF on lap 15- Pierre thinks if he lacked the self control, he could punch Kevin right now. Instead, he remains silent as he and the Dane climb into opposite sides of the medical car, both crossing their arms and facing away from each other.

"So neither of you feels injured, correct?" one of the medics asks from the front seat right as the car starts moving. The race had been red flagged- not because Pierre or Kevin had been seriously hurt, but because the track was covered in pieces of Haas and Alpha Tauri, and probably a dozen different kinds of fluid.

"I feel fine," Kevin says, "Probably going to be sore in the morning."

_And whose fault is that,_ Pierre thinks. He's not even completely sure how it happened- just knows he was braking for a corner and then he was hit on the side and pushed what seemed like miles from the racing line. It happened fast, whatever it was.

"My head aches," Pierre says honestly, glaring at Kevin from the corner of his eye. His head does hurt- but it's been at a low level of ache for at least two months, maybe longer, he can't really remember. Kevin slamming into him at barely less than race speed only worsened the pain froma dull, almost forgettable ache to something sharper. Nothing debilitating, but just painful enough to make him acutely aware of the throbbing in his temples.

"Sorry," Kevin finally admits, sheepishly, "I lost the brakes. I thought I'd miss you. I was wrong."

"We need to check both of you for concussions once we get back to the medical center, then," the doctor interrupts, and Pierre sighs impatiently.

"Yeah, you were wrong," Pierre replies coldly, ignores the startled look Kevin gives him and resumes staring out the window until the car pulls up to the medical center. He jumps out quickly to avoid as much contact with Kevin (or anyone else for that matter) as possible, lets one of the medics lead him into the sterile depths of the center, into a room with little more than a table and a couple of chairs in it.

"I need you to sit still and keep your eyes open," the medic says, flashing a pen light directly into Pierre's pupils. It makes his headache worse, but he doesn't want to admit it- just winces and lets the medic go on.

"Hmm," he says, "That doesn't look good. Pierre, on a scale of one to ten, how bad would you say your head hurts right now?"

"A five, maybe? Pretty bad when you're shining that in my face."

"Okay," the medic says, leaning to write something on a clipboard that Pierre didn't even realize he had, "I'm going to move my finger in front of your face, just follow it with your eyes without moving your head."

Pierre tries- he really does- but he can only manage a couple passes before the room starts spinning. He looks down, blinks quickly a few times, becomes far too aware of his hands shaking in his lap.

The medic sighs, writes something else down on his clipboard, looks up at the exact same time Pierre does.

"You almost certainly have a concussion," he says, "On the milder side of moderate, I'd guess. I'm going to give you paracetamol now, and then you can take it on schedule as much as you need until the symptoms go away. What you really need to do is rest, mentally and physically, don't do anything that'll put strain on your body or your brain until you're not hurting anymore. And come and see us before the next race so we can check you," he urges, "Are we clear?"

"Yes, sir," Pierre manages, eyes on something beyond the medic in a thousand yard stare. When he's not focusing on anything in particular, it hurts a bit less.

"Good. I know how you racing types are," the medic says rather cheerfully, giving Pierre a friendly pat on the shoulder, "If any of your symptoms worsen, or you start to feel any other pain while you're still here, come to us immediately. If you're not at the track, go to an emergency room. I don't want to keep you any longer, I know you probably don't want to be here-"

"Yeah, I got it," Pierre interrupts, "Thanks."

"No problem. Take these and you can go," the still-fire-suited medic says, dropping a packet of paracetamol and a small bottle of water into Pierre's hands- he swallows the pills quickly, bids everyone in the center a thank you, and heads on his way back through the paddock. 

"Hey!" he hears somewhere behind, "Hey, Pierre, wait up!" Pierre turns around- and all of a sudden there's a flash of orange, and Lando is walking next to him.

"Is the race over already?" Pierre asks, not thinking to look around and see. His head hurts too much for using logic anyway.

"No, just my engine blowing up again," he says, matching Pierre's stride length, "You know how it goes. Hey, are you okay? You look kind of out of it."

"Concussion," Pierre says simply, and Lando lets out a little 'ahh'. 

"Those freaking Haas-holes," Lando shakes his head and grins, stopping behind the back of his garage, "I gotta go man, but you take care of yourself. Don't kill Kevin without someone recording it," Lando laughs, and Pierre cracks a smile too.

"I'll try. See you later, Lando," Pierre nods, continuing the last few steps to the Red Bull hospitality. The A/C is a startling contrast to the warmth of the Australian sun- it feels kind of nice. 

Pyry's waiting for him in his driver's room, focused on his phone, but his head snaps up when Pierre steps in.

"Hey," he says simply, cautiously. "How are you?"

Pierre sighs, "My head hurts. Medics said I have a concussion. I already took something for it."

"I understand," Pyry answers gently, "I'm gonna let you be, just text me if you need anything. Don't forget to go to the media pen before it's over," he says, quickly excusing himself and exiting the room. Pierre's grateful- he just wants to peel his fireproofs off and sulk until he can go back to the hotel room. He grabs a set of clothes off the shelf, unties his race shoes, and heads out to the small bathroom between his and Dany's rooms- startled when he catches himself in the mirror.

_My God_, he thinks, scrubbing at his face, _why do I look so tired?_ Sure, the past few months had been rockier than normal- but it was also the beginning of a new season, that's always stressful- and yet, Pierre can't help but think that something is wrong when he looks at the reflection of his own face. It's easier to ignore it- he shakes his head, pulls on his regular clothes and heads out to answer the inevitable interrogation waiting in the media pen for him.

By the time he gets through all the interviews, Pierre's exhausted, his head is properly throbbing once more, and his stomach feels kind of funny. He's finally, finally headed back to the team, ready to go back to the hotel, when someone grabs him by the elbow and yanks him into a narrow, nearly impassable alley between motorhomes.

Charles's arms around Pierre's waist are the first identifier that he hasn't been kidnapped, followed by the Monegasque's lips gently pressed onto his cheek. He's never quite grasped how Charles can go from being stone cold in the car to a total softie outside of it, but now he doesn't have time to think about it.

"Hey," Charles greets, but he immediately looks concerned when Pierre lets out a soft groan and rests his forehead against Charles's shoulder, leaning more of his own weight onto his boyfriend.

"What happened? Are you hurt?" Charles whispers, running a hand over one of Pierre's shoulder blades as an act of comfort.

"Concussion," Pierre says for the umpteenth time, this time through gritted teeth, "My head really hurts and I feel, feel really dizzy," he adds, "sorry."

"No, stop, don't apologize," Charles says quickly, "Should I take you to the medical center?" he asks, doesn't even let Pierre have the chance to say "no" before he continues, "Actually, I'm taking you no matter what you say."

Pierre lets himself be dragged across the paddock- it's mostly clear now, save for the team members who are too busy packing everything up to notice him- and he knows that fighting with Charles while he's in this state would be totally futile. He's not really aware of the whole situation, anyways- just that he feels very poor, that Charles is holding onto his wrist to guide him, and that his phone is buzzing away in his back pocket, but his free arm feels too heavy to grab it.

Charles opens the door to the center and gently pushes Pierre in, reaching for the ringing phone and fishing it out of Pierre's pocket right as the nurse working the front check in area greets them.

"Fuck, it's Pyry," Charles says, glancing at Pierre's phone and then glancing at the nurse, "One of the medics said he got a concussion earlier, but the pain has just gotten worse," the Monegasque fills in quickly before tapping the green answer button on Pierre's phone.

"Pierre Gasly?" the nurse confirms, "Let's get you to a room then," she says, gently resting a hand on Pierre's back to guide him through the hallways. Charles's familiar accent greeting Pyry on Pierre's phone fades into an echo and then nothing as they travel further in.

"Alright," the nurse says, kinky hair bouncing as she turns her head and pushes open a door, "They're going to have to perform a scan on your brain to make sure you're not bleeding, okay Pierre? As soon as he's done we'll get an IV in you to make the pain go away. Just lie down here and I'll make sure the doctor is in as fast as possible."

Pierre shuts his eyes, focusing instead on not sounding like he's completely out of breath. It's easy to forget that the medical centers are fully staffed and completely technological rather than just triage centers at the edge of the paddock, and then they lead you back into a room with a CT scanner and hundred-thousand dollar equipment, and you're brutally reminded of how prepared they must be.

He's managed to start breathing mostly normally again and keep his eyes open when the doctor comes in- no longer in his fire suit like he was when Pierre was in the medical car, but instead in regular scrubs. Pierre can't remember the doctor's name, but he's got kind eyes and a concerned look on his face, and Pierre is willing to trust anyone that'll take away his headache right now.

"Hey again, mate," the doctor says, taking a few steps towards the stricken driver, "Heard your headache got worse? Don't worry, we're gonna get you fixed up. How's your pain level right now?"

"Seven or eight," Pierre manages through gritted teeth, "What do you need me to do?"

"If you've got any metal jewelry on, I need you to take it off," the doctor says, and Pierre complies, sliding off his watch and bracelets and handing them off.

"My- Charles is in the reception," Pierre says, "Maybe my trainer, too."

"Excellent, I'll just have your nurse take your things to them, and once we get done in the CT they can come in too, okay? The scan will only take a minute," he says, fumbling with a control on the arch and wheeling it closer to Pierre's head, "There's a button right here in case you need anything, and though you won't be able to see me, I'll be talking to you the whole time. You shouldn't feel a thing. Sound good?"

"Yes," Pierre winces, he doesn't really care what they do as long as the pain goes away. The doctor pats him on the knee and steps out of the room, handing Pierre's belongings off to the nurse that had seen him earlier on the way out.

"Alright Pierre, when I count to three I'm gonna start taking the first scans, I need you to hold your breath for about ten seconds. Ready? One, two, three..."

"Charles," Pyry starts. They're still in the reception area, Pyry in one of the uncomfortable chairs and Charles pacing the room around him, "He's fine. He got a concussion, these things happen. You're going to wear a groove in the floor if you keep doing that."

And Charles knows he might be overreacting just a bit- but then he recalls the way Pierre had been acting over the past three months, his constant irritability, his constant want to sleep, his significantly smaller appetite, his denial that anything was wrong- and Charles thinks he's earned the right to be worried.

"I know-" he starts, but he's interrupted when the nurse comes back in. She holds out her hand to Charles, and he's surprised when Pierre's many cord bracelets and blue Casio drop into his palm.

"I was instructed to bring you these," she says apologetically, "they're doing a CT scan right now, so I can't bring you back there, but as soon as he's done, I'll take you back. We're going to put him on a Decadron drip, so he should start feeling better, more alert, almost immediately," she adds.

"Isn't that on the list of-" Pyry starts, but the nurse is one step ahead of him.

"It's not technically allowed in competition, but Dr. Roberts already has a TUE set up, since this is considered an emergency situation," she supplies, "Don't worry, the FIA already knows about our procedures for head injuries."

That seems to satisfy Pyry, who looks back down at his phone and sighs. Charles remains mostly still, until his own phone buzzes and he lets out an impatient huff.

"Pyry, can I go back with you guys later? The rest of the team is leaving now, but I-"

"Yeah, course," Pyry says simply, "Our team already mostly left, too. I told them I'd take care of it so they left me a set of keys."

Charles lets out an appreciative hum and finally gives up standing, choosing the chair opposite Pyry to flop into. He's still buzzing, scared even if he knows Pierre's only sustained a relatively minor injury and he's in good hands.

"One last thing," the nurse begins, and Charles finally takes note of her name tag- Tamara. "You may or may not know, but Dr. Roberts said he'd like me to try and piece together any of Pierre's concussion history, if he's had any before."

"Not as long as I've been working with him," Pyry says, and Charles nods in agreement. He doesn't think Pierre's had a concussion since maybe his first year in GP2 six years prior, and even then it was fairly mild.

"He's been having headaches," Charles blurts out, and Pyry turns to look at him, looking intrigued, "He's been having headaches lately, but he thought they were because he was stressed. He had a really bad one at testing and couldn't remember the whole day."

The nurse- Tamara, Charles forces himself to think- looks concerned, frantically scribbling away at her clipboard. "Anything else?" she asks.

"He's," Charles sighs, "I don't know. He's just been acting differently. More impatient. Eating less. Sometimes he gets really nauseated when he gets headaches. He told me he's fine, but I-" Charles shakes his head, feeling more and more guilty as he says these things out loud. Why didn't he react sooner? If something happens to Pierre, he's not entirely sure he'll be able to live it down.

"It's alright. Charles, correct?" she starts, "He's an adult and if he tells you he's fine, he's still going about most of his routine without too many changes, all you can do is keep an eye on him. You didn't do anything wrong. I'll let the doctor know about what you've told me, and I'll make sure he talks some sense into him," she says, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder, "I'm going to go back and see if he's done with the CT now." She clutches her clipboard to her chest and disappears behind the double doors.

"This will reduce any swelling in your brain," the doctor starts, not even having to search for a vein in Pierre's arm to put the IV into, "Your headache should start to reduce in about fifteen minutes, and it'll help that you're getting fluid with it, too. Do you want me to bring your friend and trainer back now?"

"Yes, please," Pierre says softly, and the doctor nods. 

"The radiologist should be done in about thirty minutes, we'll both come in to talk to you then. Shout if you need anything, I'll bring them back now."

The door clicks open and shut once, and then only a monent later it does the same. Charles comes in first, looking every ounce the concerned boyfriend, Pyry trailing in behind him.

"Hey," Pierre greets quietly, not willing to raise his voice any more, "Sorry for scaring you guys."

"Don't apologize. Please, don't apologize," Charles urges, surging forward to wrap an awkward arm around Pierre and squeeze, "How are you doing?"

"My head still hurts," Pierre starts, motions towards the IV in his arm, "but whatever this is, it's helping."

"That's good," Pyry says from his seat, "Did the doctor talk to you yet?"

"No. He said he and the radiologist will be back in about half an hour. Which one of you has my phone now?" Charles hands Pierre his phone with a halfhearted smile, which Pierre mirrors. "Thanks," he says sincerely, preparing for the massive amount of notifications surely awaiting.

The lock screen is covered in texts- one from Max, two from Dany, an abundance from his family, too many to count. He sighs, swiping over the first and starting to answer them as quickly and completely as his state of thought can manage.

The doctor comes back in a moment later, a tall woman with short brown hair following him.

"This is Dr. Aaron," he says, "She's your radiologist, she's got pictures of your scans, and, well..." Dr. Roberts trails off, and both Charles and Pyry's heads snap up at the sound of concern in his voice.

"Well what?" Pierre questions, trying to keep his voice calm despite the rising hysteria he's feeling, "What's wrong with me?"

"Hey, stay calm. The good news is that we didn't find any brain bleeds," the radiologist confirms, and he relaxes slightly. 

"Is it true you've been having headaches lately? Maybe a change in mood? Nausea?" Dr. Roberts adds, running down the clipboard sitting in his lap.

Pierre glares over at Charles, who gives him a sheepish shrug, and then nods his head. "Yes, sir. New season stress," he reasons, but with all the eyes staring at him, his reasoning sounds pathetic.

"Pierre," the radiologist starts gently, her voice composed and soothing, "We found some abnormalities in your CT scan."

"I don't understand what you mean."

She sighs, and holds up one of the images so he can see it. There's something strange about it- seeing his own brain- but there's also something strange about seeing the large, lighter colored mass the radiologist helpfully points out with her pen. His breath hitches in his chest. Here's your brain, the image helpfully supplies, and here's a tumor.

"It appears you've got about a golf ball sized mass between your temporal and frontal lobes. It's been pressing your brain into your skull, which would explain why you've been having headaches and feeling sick."

Pierre stays silent. _This can't be real, _he tells himself, _I'm only 24. This can't be happening to me._

Pyry, ever the voice of reason, breaks the stony silence- "So, what do we need to do now? What can we do?"

The radiologist sighs once more, gives Pierre a comforting pat on the hand. "We don't have the equipment to do much about it here," she explains, "Plus, we're still at a racetrack. What we can do for you is keep you on a low-level of the Decadron you're on now, which will keep any swelling down and hopefully help with some of your symptoms. But when you get home, you need to get in to see a neurologist immediately, then you'll go from there." She pauses, giving Pierre a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry I can't do much more for you here."

"So I have cancer," Pierre whispers, not exactly stating but not forming a question either. He doesn't know what to say, think, do- all his brain can supply is _how am I going to break this to the team?_

"Likely, but not certain," Dr. Roberts adds, "It could just be a benign tumor that's gotten a little too big. They'll run a PET scan when you make it to the neurologist to see."

Pierre wants to cry. He wants to scream, to run out of the building and back into the garage, curl up into a little ball in a corner where he won't be in the team's way, and sob. He doesn't, just remains deathly still while the doctor gently pulls the needle out of his arm and carefully wraps the injection site.

Charles is the first to react- he stands up quickly, mumbles out "excuse me" and hurries out of the room, phone clutched in a white knuckled palm. Undoubtedly he's calling his mother- Pierre knows major illness taking away those he loves is one of Charles's greatest fears, stemming from the loss of his father. Pierre feels numb.

"I'm going to go get you that Decadron," Dr. Roberts whispers, "and then you'll be free to go. It's important that you get plenty of rest, continue healthy habits, don't over exert yourself, and do not delay seeing a neurologist as soon as your feet are back on European soil."

He creeps out of the room, leaving Pierre and Pyry alone with the radiologist and the impregnable silence.

"You're young," she finally speaks, "and you're healthy. You can fight this. You can beat it. I know it's scary, but," she gives him another pat on the hand, "You'll get better," she finishes, and then excuses herself out, leaving just Pyry and Pierre.

"Pyry," he whispers, "I'm scared."

"I know. I know," Pyry says, shaking his head, "I know. It's okay to be scared. We'll get through this."

Dr. Roberts reappears in what seems like record time, a manila folder in one hand and a bottle in the other. He hands the folder to Pyry and the bottle to Pierre, explaining both as he goes-

"This," he says, tapping the folder, "Includes all of your prescription information, the TUE to turn into the FIA, and copies of your scans. One copy is for the FIA, make sure one gets to your neurologist. And for this," he says, handing the bottle to Pierre, "Let me explain. Take one of these in the morning, but make sure you eat something or they'll upset your stomach. Try to take it before noon, otherwise it might keep you awake at night. You can take paracetamol, but don't take anything else since you still have a concussion as well. Also, no alcohol."

"Okay," Pierre barely whispers, cradling the orange bottle in his palm, "Thanks."

The doctor sighs deeply, squeezing Pierre's shoulder. "You're free to go. Feel better soon," he says simply before exiting the room.

Pierre's a bit unsteady on his feet when he first stands, but he stabilizes before Pyry can steady him. 

"I'm tired," he manages, like he hasn't just been given life-changinfg news, "Let's go home."

The moment Pierre is out the door of the examination room, there's a set of arms around him- one hand cradling his head and the other fisted in his shirt, forearm pulling him ever closer by his lower back.

"I'm sorry," Charles gasps, hiccups into Pierre's shoulder, "I'm so fucking sorry, I should've known, I should've-"

"Hey, stop that. It's okay," Pierre starts. He gently pushes Charles back so that he's at arms' length, smiles weakly, "I'm right here. We're okay."

Charles manages a watery smile, and then pulls Pierre in again. "I love you so fucking much," he whispers, "I love you so much."

"I love you, too," Pierre squeezes back, "Now, like I said to Pyry- let's go home."

Charles lets go, intertwines their fingers, and lets Pyry lead them back out into the setting sun over the paddock.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can yall tell im having fun writing the sweetest, most loving charles ive ever written before? because i am definitely loving it

Even after leaving Australia, they don't get to spend much time with each other- Charles goes back to Maranello for a few days, tries his hardest to not think about the part of Pierre's brain slowly killing itself, puts all of his energy into doing Mattia's inane tasks and PR work and counts down the days until Pierre comes back to Monaco. 

The Frenchman has his own busy schedule- he tells Franz after their team debrief in Faenza, watches as his often emotionless team principal's face falls and doesn't resist when Franz pulls him into a tight hug and promises he'll fight to have Red Bull support him through this. He spends a few days in Max's Milton Keynes apartment after meeting with Marko and Christian at the Red Bull factory; Christian tears up and even Marko looks sympathetic, especially when Pierre slides the folder with the images of his brain scan across the table and it becomes increasingly apparent that he's the unluckiest of their drivers.

He only stays in Milton Keynes long enough only to break the news to everyone at Red Bull and to see the team's recommended neuro, and then immediately flies back to Nice. Pyry scolds him for refusing to stay in one place and just get a few days of rest, but Pierre doesn't care- no matter what sort of hell is in his head, his heart demands he go home to his Charles regardless.

Charles picks him up from the airport, takes his lonely suitcase and tosses it into the trunk of his Ferrari, holds his hand the entire way home, and then when they're finally back in Charles's apartment in the heart of Monte-Carlo, Pierre lets himself get dragged onto Charles's bed and immediately smothered in an embrace.

"How did it go, with the neurologist?" Charles whispers, tangling their legs and reaching up with one hand to brush Pierre's hair out of his face.

"Well," Pierre starts, "They took more CT scans. They made me take a pill with dye in it to color the different parts of my brain," he sighs, "And then an MRI, and then a PET scan, and then they took my blood."

"So they basically checked every part of you?" Charles wonders aloud, and Pierre nods.

"Yeah," he exhales deeply, "It's...a lot. There's good news and bad news, whichever you want to hear first."

"You tell me," Charles says softly, pulling Pierre in for a momentary kiss.

"I'll start with the good. They think its localized, the tumor. It's mostly got boundaries, which is good because in other cases where it grows into the brain, it's way harder to fix. Also, this is good and bad, I guess....they think it's probably cancerous, but there's no cancer in any other part of ny body. Just my brain. Just the tumor," Pierre murmurs.

"And the bad?" Charles quietly urges, and Pierre shakes his head, hair rustling against the pillow.

"They referred me to a cancer center in Texas for surgery. Made an appointment already, even. Apparently they've worked with professional athletes before..." Pierre trails off, "I fly out Tuesday and I'm supposed to have surgery Thursday. You'll be in Bahrain by then," he adds sadly. "They're afraid about my surgery, that I'll lose something important. Language. Memories. Personality. And no matter what I'll," Pierre inhales, trying to regain composure, "I'll have to learn how to walk again after surgery."

Charles doesn't say anything, just pulls Pierre into his chest, rubbing his back softly. Everything about himself hurts just thinking about it- he can't imagine how Pierre's feeling.

"They think I'll have to do the whole thing," Pierre says into Charles collarbone, "Radiation and chemo, too. And that it might come back," he mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut, "That I might never drive again."

"Pierre. Don't say that," Charles scolds gently, but his own heart is aching. He can feel the Frenchman trembling- it's startling, it hurts him, because Pierre has always been the strong one, the eternal optimist. Now his own body is tearing him apart. It's cruel, it's unfair, it's tragic in a way Charles can't believe.

They stay like that for minutes that feel like hours- Charles just holds Pierre, lets him silently fall apart, cling to him like his life depends on it- and, all things considered, might just.

Pierre eventually settles, and Charles scoots back to look at his face, taking in the familiar sharp plane of the bridge of his nose, blue eyes the color of the sky on a late summer afternoon in Monaco, perfectly pouted lips. Even in the heart of tragedy, Charles can't help but feel awe of just how beautiful _his_ Pierre is, how fucking lucky he feels. Their friendship becoming something more, something real and tangible on the next level is the only good thing Charles can think fate has dealt him in the past few years.

"What are you thinking? How are you feeling, love?"

Pierre laughs and winces at the same time, and Charles looks at him as intently as possible, dedicated to capturing in his memory as much of Pierre before everything changes as he can. 

"On one hand, I'm fucking terrified. I don't want to die. I can't believe this is happening," Pierre whispers, and Charles reaches for his hand and squeezes. Pierre laughs again, manages a tiny smile before he speaks with a little more volume, "And on the other hand, I'm just hungry from this stupid medication and thinking about the tomato pesto tortelloni at that restaurant we went to in Sanremo last time we drove to Bologna." 

Pierre's appetite had gotten a bit better on the Decadron- as long as he remembered to eat some sort breakfast when he took it, it was effective at dulling the headaches and mostly reduced his fits of nausea, except for on the worst days- but he still wasn't as capable of eating as be used to be back when he was healthy. Still, Charles is grateful, because Pierre had started eating so little on days when his headaches were worse that Charles was afraid he'd pass out.

"Well," Charles starts, dragging Pierre's left wrist up from under their comforter and eliciting a small laugh from the Frenchman when he tips his head in an attempt to read the watch wrapped around it, "It's almost seven, if we leave now we can make it to Sanremo before the place becomes reservation only. It's only about an hour and we can take the scenic roads that go by the beach."

"Charles..." Pierre weakly protests, but he's being urged to get up by the Monegasque, "we really don't have to."

"But I _want_ to," Charles says simply, reaching into his closet and tossing a hoodie towards Pierre, "It's getting cooler. Take this." He toes his shoes on, grabbing his wallet and car keys off the bar before turning around to look the Frenchman in the eye. 

"I want to give you nice things to think about instead of all the other bullshit going on," he says, holding both of Pierre's hands in his own, "Now come on! I already started the car from my phone so the heated seats should already be warmed up," he says, pulling them both out of the front door and into the crisp night air.

Pierre's taken aback, overwhelmed by how much Charles cares about him, how much he loves the Monegasque, and when they get in the car, he says as much.

"I love you, too," Charles smiles, easing the car out of the driveway, "More than you know. Now," he continues, laughing slightly, "Let's go get that fucking tortelloni, babe."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more angst, because that's all I know :)

_Twelve hours._

That's how long Pierre's got until he's supposed to be boarding his flight to Houston with Pyry- he's supposed to be packed right now, supposed to be mentally preparing himself to have the most integral organ in his body cut into by strangers that speak with strange accents, supposed to act like everything is okay and normal and that he'll be alright, supposed to just let it happen while his best friend and the love of his life is on the other side of the planet. Pierre knows he should be working on coping with it all, that the team's psychologist had told him to breathe and preoccupy his time finding the positives, but right now that seems an impossibility.

Twelve hours from boarding, and Pierre's crumpled into a pitiful form on the cool white tile of the bathroom in Charles's apartment, head between his knees and shivering against the chill of the A/C, trying to keep himself from sobbing like a child separated from his mother or throwing up, both likely possibilities in his current state. His head hurts, he realizes, in both a physical way and a psychological way. He doesn't know whether it's because he had gotten up earlier than normal to take his meds and they've started to wear off or just the sheer stress of everything going on, but Pierre does know that his head is throbbing and he's one too-quick movement away from puking what little he had eaten today into the toilet.

Charles had gotten increasingly adamant about supporting Pierre in their time together in Monaco, and while Pierre knows that logically all he'd have to do to have the younger driver at his side almost immediately is call his name into the other room and wait, but he doesn't want to. Charles, for his relentless support and love, was obviously growing exhausted, most likely from his own stress- even after Pierre's stubborn pleas to talk about what would happen while he was gone and if something did go wrong, Charles had refused to discuss the diagnosis almost completely, instead insisting they spend as much of their time together enjoying life rather than dreading the future. On one hand, Pierre's grateful for the normalcy of spending time with his boyfriend, and on the other, the deepening dark bags under Charles's eyes had created something like guilt within his stomach, gnawing away at him.

Pierre leans his head back against the bathtub behind him and groans as quietly as possible, a combination of anxiety, pain, and exhaustion worsening the feeling of sickness in the pit of his abdomen. It had been like this for a while prior to his diagnosis, the pain and sick feeling worsening but never coming to fruition, just leaving him panting on the floor of the bathroom until it came to pass. On the occasion that they were in the same apartment and not split by a couple hundred kilometers and the headaches and nausea would hit, Charles would hold Pierre until he felt better, telling stories in quiet French to distract from it. 

Pierre lets himself sag into lying down on the tile- it's probably unsanitary as hell, but it doesn't matter, because he immediately feels some degree of relief when the ground starts holding his body weight rather than tired muscles. He clicks the home button on his phone, checking the time- 4:23 a.m.- and then shuts it off, squeezing his eyes shut and focusing on taking in and counting long, deep breaths, his headache eventually beginning to ease as well.

Pierre's not sure how much later it is when the door clicks open, but his entire body snaps up to an alert position, much to his own chagrin when his stomach flips in protest before settling. Charles looks bleary, eyes unfocused and movements still in the waking stage of uncoordination.

"I'm okay," Pierre starts, but Charles raises an eyebrow, "Headache, but I'm okay now. You can go back to sleep."

"You don't look it," Charles says, taking a step forward and gracefully folding long legs beneath himself to sit next to Pierre, "Talk to me. Tell me how you're feeling. Then we can go back to sleep."

Pierre exhales shakily, leaning back against the bathtub again. "I want _you_ to talk to me first, Charles. You haven't said a thing about me going to Houston, you won't talk about the surgery, and I'm worried about it. About _you_."

Charles sighs, picking one of Pierre's hands off the ground and setting on his leg, gently tracing the lines of joints and years of steering wheel callouses. "You shouldn't be worried about me," he says lowly, intertwining their fingers, "You're the one who's sick. I don't want to force you to keep thinking about it. You shouldn't have to, just think about getting better and everything will be okay."

"Charles," Pierre murmurs, "You already know how I feel. We need to talk about it. Please?

Charles remains quiet, staring down at their linked fingers for a few moments. He doesn't react when Pierre scoots closer and lays his head on the Monegasque's shoulder, but does manage to take in a shaky breath.

"I-" he starts, eyes forced shut, and Pierre gently squeezes his hand, "I am so fucking worried about you. You're going to be on the opposite side of the fucking planet, and I just..." he trails off, "I hate that I can't do anything to help you."

"Charles," Pierre breathes, his voice low and sad, "You're doing everything you can, and I can't thank you enough-"

"If something happens and you forget about me, us, any of this," Charles blurts out, wiping away moist eyes and gesturing around himself, "I'll still love you. I'll still be there for you. Whatever you need."

Pierre wants to say that won't happen, wants to believe that everything will be back to normal shortly, that he'll be back in his seat by the end of the season. He knows better- he knows that there's a lot of risk in his surgery, his recovery, the entire charade of the disease riddling his brain. But he's trying to grasp onto whatever frayed edges of clarity and hope he's still got.

"That's why I'm going to a world class facility. Even if it is on the other side of the planet," Pierre explains gently, truthfully- if there's anywhere that can fix him with minimal damage, he trusts the world's best. "So they can put everything back to normal. They've done it plenty of times before. We- we'll be back to making fun of Max in the paddock before long." He scoots even closer, his entire side pressed up against Charles. "Please don't cry for me," he mumbles, his own voice catching in his throat, "Don't cry. You're going to make me cry, too. I'm still right here. I'm not going anywhere," he sighs, "Except Houston."

Charles lets out a choked laugh, wipes the last of the tears off his face, and manages a weak smile at Pierre.

"Let's go back to sleep. You've got to get up in a few hours. You've got a big day ahead of you," he says, forcing himself to his feet and holding out his hands to help Pierre up. The Frenchman rises a little bit less gracefully, but the second he's all the way up, he's got his arms wrapped tight around Charles's middle, his face buried in the Monegasque's shoulder.

"I'm not going anywhere," he repeats into Charles's ear, feels the arms around his neck give a gentle squeeze.

"You're not going anywhere," Charles agrees, voice barely more than a whisper.


	7. patient record #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, i'm not dead! just been busy as HELL lately. also, this chapter (and the one that follows, which is basically part 2 of this and provides some explanation) was originally NOTHING like this but i hated it so i trashed it and decided to go full weirdo format for this one, and i really like the feeling/change it offers, so i might try some more of these non-prose chapters to get things across without being too dialogue or medical buzzword heavy in the prose. the chapter following this is connected to this, so don't hesitate to read it as well.  
i apologize if any of the terminology in this is incorrect. i'm not a medical student, just a research junkie who has spent far too much time reading medical journals and drugs dot com for this fic

** Patient #8719962 **

Patient Information:

Name _(first, last)_: Gasly, Pierre

DOB_ (mm/dd/yyyy):_ 02/07/1996

Type: international referral [neuro-oncology, brain cancer]

**PRE-OPERATIVE PLAN**

BACKGROUND INFORMATION:

Patient is a professional racing driver. Patient has had several minor traumatic brain injuries (hereafter referred to as mTBI) and a major vertebral column injury caused by a non-work related auto accident 5 years prior.

After collision at last competitive instance, patient was submitted to an FIA compliant medical center for assessment for mTBI. Patient was determined to have suffered a minor concussion, given 2 x 325mg of acetominophen, and given standard protocol instructions, including re-assesment of health before next round of competition.

Patient returned to medical center approx. 4 hours later with presentation of worsening symptoms. Intracranial bleed and increased intracranial pressure (ICP) procedure followed, with emergency CT scans and intravenous dexamethasone 4mg, which reduced symptoms. After questioning, patient and patient's partner revealed long-term classical solid brain tumor symptoms, including headaches, nausea, personality changes, and increased, abnormal fatigue. Preliminary CT analysis revealed presence of expansive type solid brain tumor, approximately 7 cm in diameter, b/w frontal and temporal lobes. Patient prescribed low-dose oral dexamethasone (brand name Decadron) for prevention of increased ICP or tumor related headaches and nausea, referred to home GP or neurologist.

After referral to neuroradiologist in UK, further CT, MRI, and PET confirmed non-infiltrative, expansive malignancy. Dexamethasone regimen continued, dose unchanged. Patient further referred to MD Anderson for surgical resection and first-line treatment.

Preliminary diagnosis of grade 2/3 astrocytoma based on current imagery, further biopsy testing required for confirmation. 

RECOMMENDED TREATMENT PROCEDURE:

Surgical partial resection of malignancy to reduce ICP and begin first line treatment of underlying cancer(s). Awake craniotomy is the current standard (w/ patient's consent). Other recommended standard of care: implantation of carmustine wafers (Gliadel) to begin chemotherapy regimen (CTx) if incomplete resection. Pre-operative medication includes IV MRI dye regimen, IV dexamethasone, along with 16 mg dose of IV odansetron (Zofran) prior to anesthesia to prevent instance of post operative nausea and vomiting (PONV). [note: patient is considered high risk for PONV and CINV, prescription of 5HT3 receptor antagonist recommended upon discharge]

Tissue sample to be sent from solid tumor to lab for analysis and confirmation of type and grade.

Post-operative care to include particular focus on healing of incisions, rehabilitation of coordination and speech [note: patient fluent in English, French, partial fluency in Italian], and palliative care of first-line CTx symptoms. Immunosuppression to be expected; when patient is discharged, special care **MUST** be taken regarding pathogen-heavy public spaces. Flying is generally not recommended except in the instance of international referrals who are healthy enough to return home for further treatment. Patient should have their dexamethasone dosage reduced or tailed-off 4 days prior to travel, and increased upon arrival and confirmation of health by oncologist.

OTHER NOTES:

_Patient discharged after 1st day at MDA after blood testing and outline/consent to pre-op plan, to return next day for pre-surgery procedures._

_Patient expected to return to EU for adjunct radiotherapy (RT) and continued CTx. Treatment center, care team, oncologist, and plan to be determined in outpatient care._

_Patient refused pre-op counseling. Patient did not want to discuss prognosis or survival outcomes. Patient displayed hesitancy in determining emergency medical directives, aided by companion. Patient displayed hesitancy in discussing palliative care options._

_Patient discussed anxiety about getting back to their career, including worries about weight and muscle loss, inability to continue current excercise schedule at current intensity, worries about drug testing and compliance [patient has recieved a WADA/FIA mandated therapeutic use exemption for all necessary medications after confirmation of brain lesion and malignancy], fear of losing coordination or ability, and fear of losing position on the team/in the sport. Counseling/therapy **HIGHLY** recommended for future care plan. Patient is likely **moderate** risk for developing or worsening mental illness during treatment [patient has history of prior mild depression]._

File to be further updated after procedure [scheduled for 03/19/2020]

**Record last updated:** 03/17/2020

**SEE ATTACHED FORMS FOR PATIENT IDENTIFYING INFORMATION, SURGICAL CONSENT, FINANCIAL RESPONSIBILTY, EMERGENCY MEDICAL DIRECTIVES**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading and any feedback <3 scold me for this seemingly rando chapter if you want!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my goodness 2 chapters in 2 days after almost a month of nothing!  
sorry about that, guys /: im in my 2nd semester of college, taking exponentially harder/more demanding classes along w work and its really Destroying my mental health so i havent had much time or motivation to write. but ive been trying to get on top of it and i finally got some writing done. this chapter is...eh...dialogue heavy....but we're getting to the meat of the story! when i said Slow Burn i meant it apparently, sorry!

It's dark by the time Pierre makes it back into his empty hotel room. Pyry had insisted they find somewhere nice for dinner after leaving the cancer center, and while Pierre had initially hesistated, it didn't take much convincing after Pyry quietly reminded him that this could be the last normal meal he'd enjoy for a long time. Naturally, the Frenchman relented- and they had found an upscale restaurant in downtown Houston to waste Red Bull's money in. It was a good meal, and Pierre had even felt well enough to truly finish and enjoy his food, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't grateful for the cool embrace of an air-conditioned hotel room and freshly washed and arranged sheets to comfort him.

He falls face first onto the white comforter rather gracelessly- but it doens't matter- just having something other than his own legs holding himself up feels nice. It's hard to believe that only thirty-six hours prior Pierre left an increasingly hysterical Charles in the Nice airport, his heart breaking a little bit when his boyfriend fought back tears in the terminal. Houston had been mostly fine since he landed- it had rained a bit, and it sucked that the last doctor had mandated that Pierre not drive and instead leave it up to Pyry to shuttle him around, but his time at the cancer center- M.D. Anderson Center, like the big sign at the entrance to a comic book style piece of architecture that was somehow also a hospital had told him- had been informative, if a bit overwhelming. He's grateful, at the very least, that everyone there had not only treated him with compassion and understanding, but like someone who deserved to know and have a say in his own treatment. As terrifying as the reality of his cancer is, there's something soothing about being handed even the smallest amount of control in beating it back.

He inhales deeply, taking in the clean, citrusy scent of the sheets, and giving himself a moment just to lay there and relax. The day had been more than physically exhausting- it drained Pierre mentally and emotionally as well, and he mostly wanted to sleep until his body felt normal again. _That might never happen_ he reminds himself bitterly- truly, it seems like whenever he's given the grace of one good thing in his life, something massively awful must follow.

Pierre doesn't undress, just lays on the bed in his jeans, slowly losing track of time and letting his eyes flutter shut. It can't be much later than 8pm - he knows, because Pyry had insisted they get back early enough that Pierre could get a full night's sleep- but the sun is fully below the horizon, the only light and sound in the room coming from the TV.

As if in an act of defiance against the quiet, Pierre's phone starts ringing, threatening to vibrate itself off the side table. He groans exasperatedly, and answers at once without even needing to check who it is.

"_Pierrot_," Charles' voice sounds groggy and deeper than usual, like he's just woken up, "How was today? What did they tell you?" Pierre can hear shuffling on the other side of the line, and even manages to force himself up into a more upright position before Charles speaks again. "I want to know everything," the Monegasque urges.

"Well," Pierre sighs, trying to control his own drowsiness and temper the emotion in his voice, "It's, um, a lot. You want to know everything?"

"Mhm," Charles urges, "I'm up early. I don't have to shower yet. I have the time."

"If you're so sure," Pierre manages, his own voice contrastingly unsure as he picks at the pillowcase, "I'll start from the top, then. So, today I went in and they checked me in and I went over signed all my paperwork. They took blood to check that all my counts were good-"

"And were they?" Charles interjects.

"Low white cells for a healthy person, but normal for someone who's been on the same medication as me for almost a month. Anyways, then they talked about my surgery. I'm gonna get an IV tomorrow night- dye in my brain so they can see the tumor, and then meds to keep the swelling down and to keep me from feeling sick after surgery. Oh, and they're going to wake me up and have me talk during part of my surgery to make sure they don't fuck up the good parts of my brain."

Pierre can barely stifle his giggle at Charles' audible gasp- he had felt the same way, until the doctor explained why it was a necessity that he have awake surgery.

"Yeah," he huffs, "Then I'll be in the hospital for a week, maybe longer. Then another week out of the hospital before I can fly. That's when we'll make a decision on which clinic I'll go to when I get back home. I haven't decided whether I'll go home to my parents, or Bolog-"

"Come home to Monaco," Charles pleads over the line, and Pierre is taken aback. Sure, he'd considered living full-time in Monaco before- but he didn't like always feeling like a celebrity. He always imagined he'd convince Charles to move to Italy or France instead, but he had never imaged he'd have cancer either. Charles continues through the long moment of silence, regardless. "Move in with me. Officially. I'll-"

"Charles. I love you," Pierre trails off, running a trembling hand through his hair and desperately trying to not choke on the tears building in the back of his throat.

"I love you, too," Charles whispers, "I want to do everything I can for you. _Anything_. Tell me what you want."

Pierre inhales a shaky breath, steadying his voice as much as possible. He's felt stronger emotions in the past month than most of his life before it- and it's exhausting.

"Please don't make me choose right now. I'm already so fucking overwhelmed," Pierre manages, "I don't even know what will happen to me after-"

He can hear Charles cough, the sound echoing around his hotel room. Now he really regrets not talking more in depth about his diagnosis before leaving Monaco- but its too late, he's only got 36 hours until he's in the operating theater.

"You're going to be fine after Friday, _cher_. You're going to be," Charles' voice wavers, "Absolutely fine. I know you'll be back to kicking Dany's ass in qualifying again so soon."

It's quiet for a long time, the only sound on either side of the phone being both trying to compose their breathing. Charles feels pathetic- he's not the one with cancer, shouldn't be this upset, but the longer he thinks about losing _any_ part of Pierre in his life, the more it hurts.

"You know," Pierre starts, a slight laugh punctuating his sentence, "If something terrible happens to me, you get my NSX."

Charles manages a little laugh too- it's dark humor, it hurts, but if joking about it makes it a little less imposing for Pierre, he'll go along with it.

"Do I get the Civic too?" Charles jokes back, and can't help the tiny smile that slips onto his lips when Pierre laughs.

"You mean my most prized possession? I guess," he sighs, smile evident even if Charles can't see him. Charles can, however, hear a yawn.

"What time is it over there?" he asks, finally swinging his legs off the bed, phone precariously clenched between his shoulder and his ear as he opens the curtains, the Bahrain sunrise filling ths room with light.

"A quarter after nine, I think. Pyry and I went to dinner earlier and he made us come back so early so I could sleep in, but I still haven't taken a shower or anything yet. I'm sure I'll hear about it tomorrow," Pierre laughs quietly, kicking his shoes off and scooting further onto the bed, "What time is it over there?"

"Just after six am," Charles says simply, and Pierre gasps.

"Oh my God," he whines, "That's so early! That's awful," he says, "Maybe I am glad I'm not there."

"It's not so bad. I mean, I'm pretty sure I'm closer to European time than you, so," Charles supplies, and he can hear Pierre let out a little hum on the other side. It's pleasantly quiet, like it so often is between the two of them, until Pierre talks again, his voice sheepish.

"I really think I need to go change now because I'm starting to fall asleep, but I don't want to stop talking to you-"

"Then don't," Charles counter quickly, "Go change and I'll stay on the phone however long you want. I have time to spare."

"Alright, give me five minutes-" Pierre says, and Charles doesn't expect it to take that little time- Pierre's never been known for his punctuality- but before he knows it, there's rustling on the other side and Pierre's voice is soft when he finally speaks again.

"Has anyone said anything about me in the paddock?"

"A few people have asked me if you're okay. Kevin," Charles pauses, "Kevin keeps apologizing. Max, Dany, and Alex all asked me to keep them in the loop. Lando and George, too. As far as I know, your team has only confirmed you won't be here this weekend, but they didn't say why."

"I told them not to," Pierre confirms, "I want to do it on my own terms. I was waiting until I got here. I think I'm going to make an Instagram post tomorrow, and text everyone. I guess I should thank Kevin, without him it could have gone on way longer," he laughs mirthlessly. "What else is there to think about this weekend?"

"Turn your phone off after you post it," Charles warns, "Or I'll make Pyry do it. Anyways, um. There's rumors that Red Bull is introducing a new fuel for this weekend. I'm sure you know, but," Charles laughs, "Everyone at Ferrari is so worried. They want us to have the 1-2 we were supposed to get last year. I think they're being dramatic, personally."

"What, you don't think Red Bull will kick your asses?" Pierre questions, and Charles can hear the smile in his voice, "On a power track? Not even Honda can save us now."

"_Hey_, I remember a Honda powered car getting a pretty impressive fourth place in Bahrain a few years ago," Charles jokes, "Driver was pretty...oh, how did Seb say it to Lewis that time, pretty handsome, too."

"Oh yeah?" Pierre laughs.

"Oh yeah," Charles urges, "He looked almost as good in blue as he does in white now."

"You're such a flatterer," Pierre chuckles, but it's soothing to be able to go back to the romantic banter. "You're gonna let Dany win for me on Sunday, right? We could use the points."

Charles can't help but roll his eyes. Sometimes he's absolutely overwhelmed by how much affection he feels for Pierre- now is one of those times.

"But I wanna win for you," Charles whines, "It'd be _so_ romantic. Dany's gonna have to beat me first."

"Fat chance," Pierre giggles, "Listen, I'm about to fall asleep, and I don't want to keep either of us up, or out. Love you," the Frenchman adds.

"Love you, too. I'll see you next week, yeah? Mattia said I could skip debrief, so I'll be flying in Monday."

"Sounds great," Pierre says earnestly, genuinely excited even if Charles will be seeing him at his worst, "And I'll call you as soon as they let me after surgery. And if they don't, I'll make sure Pyry does."

"Oh, Pyry will be absolutely exhausted of me soon," Charles laughs dryly, "I won't leave him alone, I promise that."

Pierre huffs, too tired to properly laugh as his eyes start to slip close. "Okay, well, drive safe. Beat Lewis for me, at least. Take care, please."

"Will do. You take care, too, okay Pierre? Goodnight and sleep well."

"I'll try. Night, have fun with the press today," Pierre adds mockingly, and shortly after his phone screen goes red and the call ends, he's fast asleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is very gentle and soft (or as soft and gentle as brain cancer can be, anyways) and i felt good writing it. i really love writing big softie charles and u will have to pry him out of my cold dead hands

The hallways of the hospital are gently and ambiently lit, and it calms Charles exponentially. It lacks the sterility of many of the other medical facilities he's been in- no smell of bleach and loud alarms, no cold white tile floors and impersonal staff. The walls are adorned with art, the hallway he's currently traversing opens up to floor to ceiling window letting in late Monday afternoon sunshine. The rooms even have actual doors instead of curtains. Charles feels oddly at home, but some if it might be down to the exhaustion and jet leg creeping into his veins.

The receptionist had made Charles wash his hands thoroughly and put on a mask before she had given him Pierre's room number- it was tedious and irritating, but he understood why. As agitating as being held back was, he would never feel okay again if he somehow managed to get Pierre sick from his travel germs.

The door clicks under his palm- and he stands in the threshold to take in the sight before him. Pyry's on the couch, laptop on his knees, deeply engrossed in whatever is on the screen. A quiet drone hums from whatever's on the TV opposite Pierre's bed- and Charles can't help the tiny smile on his lips when he notices it's some kind of dirt track racing.

Pierre himself seems to be asleep- his back is to Charles, covered by the thin, clinical blanket, which makes Charles wince when he remembers how easily the Frenchman gets cold, how badly he wants to curl up next to Pierre like nothing is wrong. There's a bandage around his head, a shock of caramel brown hair sticking up around it, and an ugly tube creeping from his scalp, taped to the nape of his neck. Charles takes a few tentative steps in, and Pyry finally looks up, face filled with relief when he realizes it's Charles.

"Hey," he greets quietly, standing up to give Charles a friendly pat on the back, "how are you?"

"Tired and jetlagged. Maybe still running off post-race adrenaline. I got the very first flight back," Charles grins, "But I'll be okay. How is he? How are you, Pyry?"

Pyry sighs and thrusts his hands into his pockets, shrugging limply. "I'm okay," he says, "They've taken great care of us. He's been..." Pyry shakes his head, "He's been alright. Everything went well, like I told you over the phone, he's talking and alert when he wakes up, but he's obviously weak. They had him walk around some earlier, and it just exhausted him. They put the tube back in his head to check the swelling because he got a really bad headache, and really nauseated. I don't-," Pyry exhales, raising his hands to massage his temples.

"I understand," Charles soothes, solemnly. Pyry's been holding it together- but it's obviously tearing him apart seeing Pierre like this as well.

Pyry just nods and pats Charles shoulder again. "I'm gonna leave you two alone for a bit. I need food and fresh air, and I know he wanted to see you."

Charles stands there helplessly as Pyry leaves, and then takes the last few strides to sit in the chair next to Pierre's bedside. The Frenchman at least looks peaceful- one arm curled up next to his pillow, a clear IV line and taped up cannula creeping from the crook of his elbow. An indentifying hospital band is wrapped around his wrist, contrasted with familiar stacked cord bracelets. Pierre's lips are slightly parted, letting out gentle puffs of air against the clinically white pillow case.

"_Salut, amour_," Charles whispers, daring to gently trace a finger down Pierre's jawline and smiling when the corners of Pierre's lips turn up slightly in his sleep. He sits down, gently reaching for Pierre's hand and resting his palm on it. 

He stays like that for a long time, leaning halfway onto the bed, eyes slowly drooping closed. It's far from ideal, but still feels right- more than anything Charles is just grateful to finally be there with Pierre, no matter how fucking terrible the explanatory variable for it is.

He only stirs when Pierre does- pleasantly surprised to see the Frenchman smiling fondly up at him.

"Hey," Pierre says softly, "You didn't let Dany win."

Charles wants to say something sarcastic back, but he can't bring himself to be even slightly mean, just intertwines his fingers with Pierre's and squeezes.

"_Ç__a va mieux?_" he murmurs, deciding that French is probably a bit easier for Pierre to process right now, wincing when he lets out a pathetic laugh.

"_C__'est une blague?_" the Frenchman huffs, sounding a little less exhausted than he did in speaking in English, "_Je me sens comme de la merde_."

Charles gives him a pitying look and softly runs his hand over Pierre's wrist, hoping the action comes off as comforting rather than condescending.

"_Je me suis levé plus tôt et j'ai presque vomi,"_ Pierre continues, grimacing. He's so fucking tired of being sick and weak, so tired of feeling like he's in a shell of himself. "_Je déteste être ici. Je veux aller a la maison."_

Charles sighs, just wanting to pull all of the tubes and lines out of Pierre and cuddle up with him until he's better or kicks him out of the bed, like they normally do when one or the other is ill. "_Je sais et je suis désolé_," he mumbles, but the words feel and sound hollow. Pierre falls quiet, cradling Charles' hand in both of his own. The heart rate monitor on his index finger is a bit in the way, but neither says anything about it being uncomfortable.

The quiet continues for a long time- Charles has so many things to say and ask, but he knows now is not the time. There's so many unknowns, and Pyry told him over the phone that Pierre had stubbornly refused to discuss almost anything beyond the absolute necessities of his treatment, but right now he just wants to stop and let the world fly past them for once, no unnecessary questions asked, no words needed.

"How long are you staying?" Pierre finally asks. His care had urged him to switch between languages to maintain fluency as much as possible. It annoyed him to no end to flip-flop, especially with Pyry's awful grasp of French and Pierre's own inability to recall the specifics of Italian grammar, but it also made sense, as much as he didn't want to admit it.

"The next race isn't until April, and then we have almost an entire month off," Charles explains, "Mattia said I could do debriefs and meetings over FaceTime if I need to. He wasn't happy about me missing sim time, but he understood. So, I can be here as long as you need until then, and if you're not home yet by then, I'll come right back."

Pierre lets out a deep breath, resisting the urge to pick at the tape holding the IV to his arm. He feels awfully guilty for forcing Charles out of his career just because of his own health problems, and it compounds against all the other reasons he feels awful. It's not fair, nothing about the way the past two years have unfolded has been fair, and he just wants to rewind and take them back, unlive them and be healthy and happy like he was back then.

Sometimes it's _so_ _unnerving_ how well Charles can read him, even when he's quiet, because the Monegasque rolls his eyes and reaches to run a thumb over Pierre's cheekbone.

"I can practically see your thoughts," Charles murmurs, "And I need you to get it through your head that I wouldn't be here if I didn't want to be here."

Pierre laughs weakly at the unintended pun, leaning onto his back and staring at the lights on the ceiling until his head starts to ache.

"That's not the only thing I had to get through my head," he jokes, to which Charles groans exasperatedly.

"Oh my God," he whines, feigning annoyance. In reality, there's naive, hopeful joy warming Charles from the inside out- despite the fact Pierre just underwent a life-changing diagnosis and surgery and still was nowhere near being out of the woods, it's genuinely comforting to know he didn't lose his cheerful and characteristic cheekiness.

"Shut up," Pierre smiles and shuts his eyes, "It was funny."

"If you really think so," Charles quips back. It's lighthearted banter and it feels normal, and he can _almost_ close his eyes like Pierre and imagine them playfully arguing about what to watch on TV while laying on the couch back home in Monaco. Charles likes his soaps and Pierre likes his reality TV, and neither likes compromise- it wasn't uncommon for one of them to turn the TV onto a channel first thing in the morning and hide the remote from the other, much to their chagrin.

"Hey," Pierre half whispers, not opening his eyes to scoot over in the hospital bed and adjust the tubes and cords trailing off various parts of his body to rest on one side, the other vacant. He doesn't say anything else, just pats the bed next to him and gestures for Charles to join.

"I don't know how happy your care team would be about that. I don't want to get you sick," Charles manages uneasily, even though every fiber of his being is yelling at him to take the opportunity to hold Pierre while he can. The sign on the wall detailing the names of his nurses, surgeon, neuropathologist, and oncologist also includes helpful mentions of things like _high risk of infection_ and _moderate immunodefficieny_ next to Pierre's name and a crudely scribbled French tricolor. _Grade 2/3 Lab-Confirmed Anaplastic Glioma/Astrocytoma_ it reads at the very bottom in big, bold letters, but Charles can't look at that for too long otherwise he risks his vision going blurry with tears. He turns his focus back to Pierre and blinks them away.

"If I get sick, at least I'll get sick being happy instead of being lonely in this shitty cold room," Pierre turns back over to Charles to pout, "And considering I have cancer that might kill me no matter what, I think the care team can get over it."

Charles winces at that, but relents. He sighs and shakes his head at Pierre's ever-stubborn antics, shrugging his jacket off before gently lowering himself onto the empty space next to the Frenchman. It doesn't take but a second for Pierre to tuck himself against the Monegasque's side and under his arm, Pierre's own cord-and-tube free arm reaching to brush fingertips against Charles' collarbone and his hand eventually coming to rest over Charles' lazily beating heart.

He presses his own stubbly cheek against Charles', lips turned up into a smile so genuine and bright that Charles can almost feel the breath leaving his lungs.

"God, you're like a heating pad," Pierre laughs, "So much better than this shitty blanket." 

"Thanks," Charles grins, "My one true talent."

Pierre laughs and fidgets a bit until he's as comfortable as he can get, hand still resting possessively over Charles' heart. Charles does notice the Frenchman's eyes starting to flicker shut, smiles a bit at his loopy expression. His own eyelids are feeling heavy- and in Pierre's arms he feels familiar. He feels at home.

"Tell me about your weekend," Pierre mumbles halfheartedly, "Tell me about the oversteer and understeer in the corners, and what Lewis complained about, and tell me about Max and-"

"Okay," Charles starts, cutting him off, "Well, the car itself felt pretty good..."

When Pyry steps back in after the sun is all the way below the horizon later, the nursing team in tow to check Pierre's vitals after more than a few hours of near radio silence from his room, he's not particularly surprised to find the Frenchman snoring lightly against Charles' chest, the Monegasque's arm loosely around Pierre's middle.

"Do you want me to wake them?" Pyry asks, mildly concerned about the care team not having the easiest access to Pierre's IV or cranial drain, but the head nurse fervently shakes her head.

"He looks more comfortable than he's been the whole time here," she laments, "And I'm sure he's in good hands. You should go get some real rest on a real bed now," she urges.

"You're probably right," he says sheepishly, quietly crossing the room to grab his discarded backpack, "Call me if anything changes, please," he tells her, and she nods feverishly once again.

"Of course. Have a good night, sir."

The last thing Pyry sees in the dimly lit room before he shuts the door behind himself is the outline of Charles curled protectively around Pierre, both looking incredibly peaceful despite the bed's width not being meant to accomodate more than one at a time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> excuse my French, literally. it's google translated and some of it is cut and screwed bc google thinks that Everyone should be the formal you no matter what language it is. if u speak french pls tell me how wrong i am so i can fix it!  
rough translations (english is paraphrased):
> 
> Salut, amour: hey, love  
ça va mieux ?: are you feeling alright?  
C'est une blague? - is that supposed to be a joke?/is that a joke?  
je me sens comme de la merde - i feel like shit  
Je me suis levé plus tôt et j'ai presque vomi- i stood up earlier and almost threw up  
je déteste être ici. je veux aller a la maison. - I hate it here. i want to go home.  
je sais et je suis désolé - I know and I'm sorry
> 
> (update: thanks to KitKat19 for helping me fix the French! Should be better now!)
> 
> Let me know if these are way off or if they sound like I ripped them from a middle schoolers French textbook (even that would have greater fluency than me and google translate!)


	10. Chapter 10

"I don't know why you won't just fucking talk about it with me."

Charles voice is serious and slightly agitated- and while he's standing outside the door of their hotel bathroom, playing with his hair in the mirror while Pierre continues to relish the warmth of their bed, the Frenchman can still sense the irritation on Charles face.

They've been bickering about where he would be staying and getting treatment when they got back home since Pierre had been discharged from the main hospital to start his outpatient recovery. It didn't matter if his appointment wasn't for another three days, and they weren't anywhere near the hospital- Pyry had booked them hotel rooms a bit further from MD Anderson this time, reasoning that it'd be better for Pierre's mental health if he could at least have some time away from the place, even if his immune systen wasn't well enough to allow them to properly go beyond the boundaries of the hotel- all Charles wanted to talk about where the many unanswered questions of Pierre's treatment plan.

"I don't know why you care," Pierre spits back, not even taking his head off the pillow, "It's not like it affects you." He's so tired of Charles coddling him, treating him like he'll snap if someone so much as looks at him the wrong way. He's sick, sure, but he's not in the throes of death quite yet- and, according to the doctors at MD Anderson that literally implanted medication into his brain, he's still pretty far from it.

Charles is quick to turn around and glare at the tired lump of Pierre on the hotel bed, looking even more pissed off than he did before as he crosses his arms. "Seriously? You're fucking kidding me," he quips, mad that Pierre would even imply that it wasn't affecting him. "This wouldn't be a problem if you'd just make up your mind and talk to one of us instead of brooding and pretending like you don't have brain cancer, Pierre," he says, voice somewhere between concerned and smartass.

Even though he's still weak and still feels like shit, Pierre manages absolute indignation- still throws the comforter off the bed, swings his legs off the edge, and stands up to be face to face with Charles. The room around him spins. Charles reaches out a hand for Pierre's bicep to steady him, but the Frenchman shrugs it off in disgust.

"Excuse me?" Pierre asks, but it's not a question he expects an answer to. "What the fuck is your problem, Charles? You think I don't wake up every fucking day and think about how much I want my fucking life back, how much every single thing has changed now that I have cancer? I haven't been home, to _my_ apartment, since before Australia! Just because I don't spend every second talking about how miserable I feel doesn't mean I'm not telling you things," he bristles, chest heaving as he jabs an accusing finger into Charles' sternum. Charles, however, does not back down, rolling his eyes antagonistically at Pierre's soliloquy.

"We wouldn't even be fighting if that were true!" he exclaims, voice increasing in volume, "We wouldn't be having this stupid argument if you would just talk to me, just agree to stay in Monaco where we can take care of you for as long as you're getting treatmen-"

"I'm not a child, Charles!" Pierrre yells, taking a step back and digging his fingernails into his palms out of frustration, "I don't need you to take care of me! Jesus Christ!" he exhales, and his voice gets slightly softer and more unsure when he continues. "What if I don't get better and I need treatment forever? What then? Do you expect me to stay in Monaco for _the rest of my life_?"

Charles feels a little bit deflated at that- and he can tell Pierre does too, can see the pain and insecurity in his eyes and the tremble in his limbs. Charles knows he should stop and apologize and make sure Pierre is feeling alright, but he can't.

"Do you have a problem with Monaco? With me?" he asks, a little bit hurt, but oddly satisfied by the shock that creeps across Pierre's face when the question sets in.

"No. No, fuck no, oh my God," Pierre shakes his head, cradling it in his hands, "It's not that, asshole, it's-" he sighs, trailing off and fighting to get his breathing under control, "What about me? What about my home?"

Charles finally relents, his voice gentler: "You can move back when you're better. You'll be closer to a better treatment center in Monaco than in Bologna." _And you'll have all of us to help_ he thinks, remembering that Max, Daniel, Alex, Dany, and some of the others as well as Charles own family had offered to help Pierre out with anything he needs.

"And what about my parents, Charles? Do you just expect me to ditch them?" Pierre practically whispers, he's so quiet.

Something about the mention of Pierre's parents sends Charles reeling- he knows how much they mean to Pierre, how much he aches for their approval, and he also knows how much they've hurt him without necessarily meaning to over the years.

"Your _parents_?" he asks incredulously, "You parents who don't approve of you dating a man? Your parents who think we're just a phase, that you'll settle down with a pretty girl and have grandchildren when you finally quit me and F1?" he asks, "Your fucking parents that knew you were in the hospital for brain surgery for a week, that still couldn't make the time to come see you because you were 'too far'? Those parents?"

Pierre's eyes are glittering with barely contained tears, his knuckles white from how hard he's clenching his fists. He's feeling a combination of terrible things- saddened that everything Charles is saying is true, mad the Monegasque would even incite this fight, sick to his stomach once more from the pressure in his brain and the toxic medications not only poisoning the bad parts of his body, but some of the good ones as well.

The room falls deathly silent. The only audible sounds are the rsttling of the air conditioning, and Pierre's raspy breaths.

"Please leave," he finally pleads to Charles before sitting down, defeated, in the office chair opposite their bed, "Please, I don't want to do this right now, I can't, just-" he inhales shakily before rubbing his palms into his eyes so hard it leaves shapes dancing across his vision. "Just switch rooms with Pyry or something. Please."

Charles is still burning on the inside, but the fire is slowly being overtaken by guilt when he sees Pierre struggling to regain composure, familiar pale hands quivering as he covers his face so Charles can't see him breaking. He feels really awful when Pierre gets up and manages to maneuver himself back into their bed, lets his head fall a bit too harshly onto the pillow and emits a pained squeak.

"_Oh, _Pierre_,_" Charles says softly, voice full of sorrow, "I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking," he murmurs, gently reaching to run his fingers across Pierre's face but wincing when the Frenchman pushes his hand away as forcefully as he can.

"I'll go get Pyry, then," Charles sighs, guilt gnawing at his stomach as the sound of the door clicking shut behind him echoes through the hallway.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big angsty hours who up (its midnight my time and i just cobbled this chapter together out of a burst of motivation, please dont sue if its trash)

They don't really stray from one another, even after their argument. They can't, not as long as Charles is in Houston, anyway. Pierre sleeps in the second bed in Pyry's room the first night after their fight, then promptly changes his mind when his trainer gets up at 5 AM the next morning to go for a run and plays music loud enough to wake Pierre from even his deepest sleep- he goes back to sharing a room with Charles thereafter, just stays quiet and sleeps facing away from the Monegasque. Charles apologizes, feels genuinely guilty for making Pierre feel even worse, but it falls only mostly deaf ears. Pierre gives him a weak smile and a "_it's whatever"_ before going silent once more. 

Mercifully, he still tells Pyry how he's feeling physically, how the medications he's taking are affecting him, and all three still eat together every night, often in the silence of one hotel room or another like an estranged family. It's less than ideal, and Charles knows he should do something for Pierre to make him feel better, but the constant fear that anything he does will simply end up another struggle on Pierre's plate ends up all consuming.

That all changes after Pierre's appointment. They're supposed to be taking his stitches out, according to Pyry, and run another CT and MRI to see how much tumor is left now that the swelling has started to reduce. He's also supposed to meet with the oncologist and nurses to discuss his treatment plan for when he goes back home.

Charles doesn't go. He lets Pyry shuttle the Frenchman about, figures he'll just get in Pierre's way. He does manage to stop Pierre in the threshold of their hotel room when he's headed out to find Pyry, embrace him, and Charles feels overwhelmingly relieved when Pierre sags into his arms like nothing has changed. He stiffens and leaves before Charles has the chance for much else.

The appointment does something awful to Pierre- Charles isn't sure what, the Frenchman comes back later that afternoon, sutures gone but his eyes red and rubbed swollen. He doesn't say a word to Charles, just walks past, drops into the bed and curls up on himself, almost immediately falling into pitiful sleep. Charles doesn't wake him, even though it eats him alive not knowing what's sent Pierre into a new downwards spiral, but he does sit on the bed and gently pets Pierre's slightly greasy and unwashed hair, avoiding the part shaved short and interrupted by a pink and healing scar, hoping to soothe him into sleep that's at least restful rather than stressful.

Pyry urges him to not wake Pierre up for dinner- says they'd tapered off his steroid so he'd be ready for flying anyway, so he probably wouldn't have much of an appetite, if any. Charles begrudgingly agrees not to, and instead he leaves his exhausted boyfriend in the quiet darkness of their hotel room, his own exhales the only notable sound.

Pyry orders dinner and they share it over the mustard yellow ottoman in his own hotel room. Charles tries not to speak too much- he already had his ear chewed off for stressing Pierre out earlier in the week, he's not sure if he can handle another of Pyry's lectures- but he has never been good at holding his tongue- and especially when curiousity is getting the best of him. He's not thinking, just can't stop himself when the words slip out of his mouth.

"What happened to him today? What did they tell him?"

Pyry drops his own fork and flops back into the chair, scrubbing at his face. He takes a deep breath, blinks twice and makes unwavering eye contact with Charles.

"It's...it's nothing good. I think you should talk to him directly."

"Pyry," Charles protests, "He doesn't want to talk to me. He's been almost completely silent with me since our argument."

Pyry sighs tiredly, closing the lid on his takeout box. "Charles," he starts calmly, voice measured but exasperated, "It's not you. He's just...he's unwell, and he's terrified he'll never stop being unwell. You guys hate the thought of being weak for even a second. Do you blame him for being quiet about what's bothering him?" Pyry pauses, as if to let the words sink in, continuing just as earnestly, "He loves you. And you love him. You should just try."

Charles stops for a second, letting the words grind through his brain. He swallows the massive lump in his throat down, shakes his head a few times and mirror's Pyry's actions with his own takeout box, standing to throw it in the small hotel trash can.

"Yeah," he breathes, "Yeah, I'll see if he wants to talk. I just want the best for him. I hate seeing him feel so shitty," Charles confesses, "I'd quit Ferrari, hell, I'd quit racing entirely if it could make him feel better."

"You know he wouldn't want that," Pyry reasons, "Just go to him. If he doesn't want to talk, at least be there so he knows he doesn't have to deal with it all alone. I can tell him I'm there for him like a broken record, but I'm not the one who has been dating him for four years," he grins.

"Yeah," Charles smiles, feeling warm when he thinks about just how long they've been together, how much he loves Pierre. "Yeah, Pyry, thank you. I'm gonna go. I'll let you know how it goes tomorrow."

Pyry just shakes his head as Charles disappears out the door, both entertained and somewhat shocked at the foolishness of young love.

Pierre's awake when Charles gets back to their room. He's changed into comfortable clothes, one of his old, bright red Prema shirts and a loose-fitting pair of joggers. His legs are tucked carefully underneath where he's sitting on the chair by the window, eyes glazed over and unfocused, taking in the Houston skyline and the myriad of traffic and cop lights on the streets far below their chilly hotel room.

"Hey," Charles greets quietly, not expecting a response but feeling pleasantly surprised when he just glimpses the corners of Pierre's mouth turning up slightly. It's not quite a smile and he doesn't turn to look at Charles, but it's acknowledgement enough. Charles pulls the office chair out from under the desk, dragging it opposite from where Pierre's sitting, and finds himself staring into the horizon as well. It's strangely peaceful, watching the traffic alternate between creeping and flying past, completely unaware of the lives falling apart and falling together around it. 

Charles doesn't say a thing. He's had enough of hearing his own voice. He'll wait for Pierre, however long it takes, appreciating the twinkle of a skyscraper in the distance.

"I'm really scared," Pierre finally says so softly into the atmosphere that Charles has to strain to hear him. His eyes are glassy, and Charles can feel a sting in his own. Pierre doesn't say anything else, but he does get up and retrieve a thick folder with the MD Anderson logo from his backpack across the room- _the same one he used to use to bring an extra set of clothes to the track_ Charles remembers sadly- tossing it haphazardly onto the table before folding back up into his seat.

"What's-" Charles starts, but he falls silent when Pierre gives him a long, sad look.

"Go ahead and open it if you want," he murmurs, "It's nothing I haven't seen already," he laughs without any humor.

The top packet is thick and stapled in the corner. The bold text on the cover says **Newly Diagnosed Aggressive Glioma- Now What?** Charles flips through the pages, skimming the information and barely managing to contain himself when a table, helpfully listed as Figure 4.A, describes the 10 year survival rate of patients with anaplastic astrocytoma with a single digit percentage. Charles thinks he must be taking a page out of Pierre's book, because he feels awfully sick looking at it.

The next packet in the folder is almost equally as thick- it's titled **Self-Care For Cancer Patients**. Charles flips to a random page, and when he reads the How To Deal With Loss Of Your Independence subheading, he shuts it equally as quickly.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers, unable to find anything else to summarize the wave of emotions that hits him. Pierre just nods knowingly.

"Keep going," he urges, chewing on his lip. Charles can see Pierre's folded hands start to shake- he hates this, hates it so much, just wants to wake up from this nightmare they're living.

The next paper is much shorter- it's a handwritten prescription and treatment instruction list, complete with loopy cursive handwriting and small smiley faces. It's sectioned off by type and outcome- _recommended first-line chemo standard_ has one medication name underlined three times and an acronym below it with an asterisk next to it- _considered second-line due to hemotoxicity_ the small writing says. _Prophylactic anti-infection and anti-emetic therapies_ are longer lists. _Immunity booster_ comes next- two medications with names Charles can't pronounce, juxtaposed against the cutesy suggestion for a multivitamin. The bottom half of the page is pasted with the dreadful _In case of tumor recurrence/inability to achieve remission_ heading. The lists of treatments goes on for forever, organized by risk vs reward and severity of adverse effects. 

Charles can't take looking at it any longer. He slams the folder shut, body completely stiff from the shock of what he's read. There's more, but his vision is blurry and he can't handle reading anything else.

"I can go on," Pierre supplies bitterly, "I'll have two more weeks of nothing when I get home. Then I'll start radiation and daily chemo at the same time. Every single day. Every single day for six fucking weeks," he states, voice growing slightly hysterical before calming down, "And then, if I'm not dead yet, six to twelve more months of chemo," he turns to gaze up at the ceiling, willing the tears off, "And then...who knows what. I won't be able to race this season. _Fuck_, I probably won't be able to race next season. Maybe I'll never race again."

Charles fights the urge to reach out and pull Pierre into his chest, but he can't fight his own voice.

"Pierre..." he whispers, but the Frenchman just wipes the tears off his cheeks and continues.

"I gave them your address in Monaco. I was wrong and I'm so sorry for not talking to you about it. I know this fucking sucks for you, too," he manages through his strained breathing, "and if I'm going to be miserable for however much longer I have, I at least want to be surrounded by people I love. They've forwarded my records to an oncologist and team in Nice. _Centre Antoine Lacassagne_. I'm supposed to see them next week, after we get home."

"Pierre," Charles tries a bit more forcefully. Pierre turns and locks eyes, familiar irises the color of the harbor in Monte-Carlo on a warm summer day flooded with tears. He looks wrecked- and, all things considered, probably feels it as well.

"I'm," Pierre says softly, head falling forward into his hands and muffling his words, "I'm so scared. I'm _so_ scared, I don't know what to do, I-" he hiccups, breaths coming too quickly as his chest heaves with sobs, "I'm so sorry. _I don't want to die._"

It feels like everything Charles has ever known is crashing down on top of him. Everything hurts to his very core, and he can feel his own lower lip trembling, fighting to keep his own tears under control. He can no longer stop himself, stands up and wraps his arms around Pierre, who's still quivering with the sobs escaping his chest like trapped cries for help.

"It's okay," Charles comforts, rubbing a hand along Pierre's back as the Frenchman clenches his fists in Charles shirt and fights to regain composure, "Pierre, it's okay, it's going to be alright. I love you," he pauses, concerned when Pierre struggles to catch his breath, "I love you so much. Can you breathe with me? Deep breaths, Pierrot," he emphasizes, inhaling demonstratively himself for good measure, "Now out. We're alright."

"I'm so sorry," Pierre gasps, and all the work Charles has done to get his breathing under control goes to shit once more, "You shouldn't have to put up with me being fucking sick for the rest of my life, I'm-"

"Stop that," Charles gently chides, his own chest constricted from how awful Pierre's emotions hurt even himself, "I'm not going anywhere, Pierre. I'm so stupidly in love with you and I'd do anything to make you feel better," he confesses, momentarily embarrassed but quickly over it when it hits Pierre and he settles a bit. "Deep, deep breaths, babe. Out slowly. It's okay. I'm here and I'm not going away." 

Pierre clings to Charles for a long time- in any other circumstance, he'd be horribly ashamed of his inability to control his emotions, but right now, he thinks he's finally earned the option to let go. It takes a long time for them both to settle their breaths, easing out of each others grip gradually. They don't say anything- but this time, it's not out of silent treatment. Rather, it's intrinisic understanding of one another.

Charles strips down to his boxers and gently guides Pierre into bed, taking note of the worsening bags under his boyfriend's eyes that rarely seem to get better with sleep. Pierre's eyelids are drooping- and, when he gets comfortable under the comforter, he's out like a light almost immediately.

Charles takes his time- he goes back to the discarded folder on the table, finishes flipping through the pocket he skipped before. He's surprised by what's behind all the clinical bad news- MRI images showing a mostly completely removed tumor are punctuated by notes of encouragement from various staff that treated Pierre over his stint in Houston. A poorly drawn racecar in the colors of the French flag is scribbled in Sharpie on the blank space of a page detailing astrocytoma clinical trials, helpfully captioned with a cartoonish _VROOM!_ At the very back of the folder, Charles finds something he's not expecting- a poem, printed off a webpage in English with a handwritten, crude translation into French next to it.

_Que la marée / qui entre même maintenant / la lèvre de notre compréhension / te porter / au-delà de la peur_ he reads, comparing the translation to the original English side and making note of the errors. He inhales sharply, letting the carefully chosen words hit him- and, as if he's handled something very delicate, something that might break, he closes the folder and sets it back down gently.

When Charles crawls into bed next to Pierre, the Frenchman flips to face him, intertwines their fingers and legs in a half-asleep, dazed state.

_Au-delà de la peur_ he thinks as he drifts off to unconsciousness, knowing the translation is off, but clinging to the hope it leaves piercing his own heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the poem mentioned is one of my favorites ever, "blessing the boats (at st. mary's)" by lucille clifton. i just ran my favorite part thru translate for the french (so for once bad translation is the point!) anyways, heres the original English:
> 
> may the tide
> 
> that is entering even now
> 
> the lip of our understanding
> 
> carry you out
> 
> beyond the face of fear
> 
> may you kiss
> 
> the wind then turn from it
> 
> certain that it will
> 
> love your back may you
> 
> open your eyes to water
> 
> water waving forever
> 
> and may you in your innocence
> 
> sail through this to that


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not dead y'all! just so, so busy, but next week is my spring break so hopefully i should have some more time to write! this chapter is a bit filler, but it's happier than the last few and also i love pierre and max being good friends so :)

You know," Pierre starts, the corners of his lips turning up into a small and contradictory smile at Max, "It's okay if you touch me. I'm not going to break. I'm still the same Pierre I was before surgery."

Max's face crumples and he takes the step necessary to close the gap between himself and where Pierre is leaning against the arm of the sofa in Charles's Monte-Carlo apartment, his own arms uncrossing from in front of his chest to embrace Max, who squeezes Pierre's middle tentatively.

"'M sorry," Max mumbles, sounding nothing like the normally blunt and sometimes harsh person he often comes off as- there's something raw and pained in his voice, a touch of vulnerability he rarely showcases. Pierre pulls him tightly into his own chest- he might be the one with cancer, but undoubtedly his health had taken a toll on many besides himself. Max may as well be another brother to him- it's no wonder he's so torn up by Pierre's cancer.

"It's alright," Pierre laughs into Max's hair, "It's just that everyone's been afraid. Like if they even breathe too close to me I'll die," he sighs, "But I won't. You especially know Helmut isn't getting rid of me that easily."

Max laughs at that, one hand releasing the back of Pierre's t-shirt to reach up and run a thumb over the stubbly hair around the the slowly healing scar on his head. Pierre sighs himself, leaning a bit into the touch.

"The hair lines they cut around it at first were really fucking ugly," he adds, "Pyry bought a shaver and faded it out some so it doesn't look quite so bad now."

"I'm just imagining you with Seb's receding hairline, but on the side of your head," Max jokes, and they both laugh. Max takes a few steps back, leaning his shoulder blade up against the bar counter, and takes a deep breath.

"Pierre," he starts, voice grave and sincere, "If you need anything, especially right now while Charles is in Maranello, I don't know when your appointments start-"

Pierre sags a little at the mention. "Next week," he exhales, "Pyry is supposed to be back from Austria by then to take me."

Max fidgets, remembering everything Pierre had told him over the phone about everyone's whereabouts- Charles had to go back to the factory after Hanoi to do some debriefs and sim runs, and would be there for about a week, Pyry had flown to Red Bull HQ to determine how he was going to work now that Pierre was technically no longer driving but still remained contracted by Red Bull, and Pierre himself had been forced to remained quarantined from the rest of the world in Charles's apartment by Pyry and his care team back in Texas, unable to drive himself anywhere due to the risk of adverse side effects from his surgery. 

He and Charles had, against their better sense to not risk Pierre contracting illness, snuck out the evening after they got home, dressed up and went out to a nice dinner, and Pierre had even allowed himself a few sips of Charles's wine, accepting they would probably be his last for a long while. It had felt like a small act of rebellion- had relieved some of Pierre's fried nerves.

"Right," Max says, "Well, if you need anything before then, or if you want someone other than Pyry or Charles to take you, I'm always here, and I'm sure Alex and Daniel and Dany would love to see you t-"

"Thank you, Max. For the offer. For coming to check on me. For letting me stay with you in MK when I told everyone. For," Pierre gulps, "For it all. I don't want to inconvenience you guys," he fidgets uncomfortably.

Max shakes his head, far too accustomed to Pierre's self deprecation, but bothered by its presence nonetheless. "Not an inconvenience at all," he urges firmly, "Anything for you, Pierre."

The Frenchman manages a sad but sincere smile at Max, shaking his head so slightly that Max doesn't even notice. Max knows what he's probably thinking- Pierre's always thought himself a bit unworthy of the care of others, and Max knew that Red Bull had only compounded that and made him inconsolable and struggling with his own esteem for a long while, but now, Max can't help but think there's nobody worth being more proud of than the perseverant Frenchman.

"Anyways," Pierre says, obviously uncomfortable by the silence, "You can stay if you want. I can't go out," he says wistfully, "But I can order food in, and you can stay. If you want, of course."

Max can't keep the smile off his face at Pierre's sheepishness. "I'd love to," he grins, and Pierre smiles back equally as brightly.

"Great," Pierre says, moving from his leaning position to rest back onto the couch, "Because standing around was starting to wear me out."

Max winces a bit, but moves to flop next to Pierre. The latter turns and flashes a grin at Max, leaning forward to snatch the Xbox controllers off the coffee table. Pierre hadn't gotten the opportunity to get his PS4 from his own apartment, or even visit his own apartment yet at all- so Charles's console would have to do for now.

"Race me," he urges, the screen lighting up with the Forza start screen, "I want to kick your ass somewhere, and I definitely can't do it real life right now."

"Shit, you're so on," Max says, kicking his feet up onto the table, "I'll kick your ass in anything."

Pierre smirks. "Anything? Even a rally car?"

"Absolutely," Max assures, rolling his eyes, "I'm not gonna take it easy on you just because you're sick."

_Good_ Pierre thinks, tired of being treated like he'll shatter if anyone so much breathes on him.

Even Charles had reverted back to the constant questioning of a naive teenager nervous about hurting Pierre a few nights prior, before he left for Italy, the only opportunity for sex they had gotten since Pierre's diagnosis. It was fine, and he appreciated the thought- but it had taken him begging Charles that he wasn't going to hurt him to get anywhere.

"I wouldn't expect anything else from you, knowing how much Charles bitches about how you race," Pierre says honestly, and Max snorts.

"Tell Charles to shut the fuck up then," he jokes, and Pierre elbows him halfheartedly, barely containing his own laughter.

"Hey, be nice. Don't forget we're in his house," he chuckles, "Plus, I can't even get him to shut the fuck up when he's not pissed off and talking about how much of a shithead you are. Wouldn't have it any other way, though," he says, smiling fondly at nothing in particular and Max feigns disgust.

"Gross. Keep your boyfriend's cooties away from me," Max manages, but he's smiling too.

"Fuck off and race me already then, dumbass," Pierre laughs, finally feeling normal again for the first time in more than a month.


	13. patient record #2

**PATIENT COPY **

Gasly, Pierre

02/07/1996

** _**See Patient Records from previous institution**_ **

**Preliminary Treatment Plan:**

-Patient to begin daily radiotherapy (RT) for 6 wks. 2Gy/session starting on 04/13/2020, every weekday unless adverse effects are greater than grade 2 

-Adjuvant prescription of temozolomide (Temodal) to occur alongside RT, with a 4 wk. break before starting chemo cycles (rec. 12, up to 24)

-Patient to undergo weekly blood testing to determine haemotological effects and toxicity. Consent obtained for peripherally inserted central catheter (PICC, double-lumen) in non-dominant, LEFT forearm. Weekly dressing change and flushing to be carried out. PICC removal no earlier than 6 months post-insertion.

-Light physical activity encouraged, but patient MUST be monitored to prevent PICC migration and overexertion. Patient accompanied by certified & contracted physiotherapist, who is working with care team to develop safe and gradual exercise plan.

-Patient to meet w/ oncological counselor [as necessary/health permitting] to mitigate mental health risks. 

_Consent for clinical trials obtained. Patient may be eligible for PCV CT after adjuvant RT dependent on disease progression and overall health. Immunotherapy trials NOT recommended unless disease progresses or tumor recurs._

**Prescription Information: **

\- continued dosage (4mg) of dexamethosone (Decadron) to prevent CINV and headaches, and aid in appetite [necessity subject to review; if patient responds well to other anti-emetics, appetite remains stable, and pain can be managed by acetominophen, discontinuation of dexamethosone is encouraged]

\- Preliminary dosage of odansetron (Zofran) as secondary CINV preventative (8mg after dosage of Temodal, then 8mg every 12 hours as necessary)

\- In the instance of breakthrough CINV, dosage of lorazepam (1-2mg), possible intravenous fluid if dehydration occurs, followed by aprepitant once breakthrough is controlled (125mg, followed by 2 doses of 80mg). Patient should then be monitored for anticapatory NV.

\- Complete multivitamin recommended, esp. if patient experiences breakthrough NV and/or loss of appetite, weight loss

\- If patient experiences profound neutropenia, cautiously consider prophylactic antibiotics (cefazolin IV) and possible antivirals (Tamiflu if patient is exposed to influenza and hasn't received vaccination/received it after starting immunosupressant treatment). 

-Consider pegfilgrastim on-body injection if patient is considered high risk for profound and prolonged nadir and neutropenia, and lives/has contact with at-risk individuals [testing can determine nadir after first full week of CT/RT]

**NOTE: APREPITANT AND DEXAMETHASONE ARE KNOWN TO HAVE METABOLIC EFFECTS ON EACH OTHER. DOSAGE SHOULD BE TIGHTLY MONITORED.**

**For The Patient:**

Your PICC line is your friend! It prevents you from dealing with the pain of needles at every appointment, and protects your veins from injury! The PICC is one of the safest methods of central catheter, however, if you experience one or more of the following symptoms, please contact your care team _**IMMEDIATELY**_:

\- area around insertion point is red, swollen, bruised, or warm to the touch

\- you develop a fever greater than 37.5° C

\- your line migrates [e.g. the length outside your body gets longer or shorter]

\- you notice changes in your heartbeat

Do not lift more than 5lbs with the arm your PICC is inserted. Special care must be taken to keep the dressing of the PICC dry when showering. Many waterproof sleeves are available. It is important to keep the catheter tails of your PICC from snagging on clothes to prevent possible migration and infection, and many sleeve styles are available beyond the mesh-style provided by your hospital. It is imperative that your PICC have the dressing changed and a flush weekly- if you cannot make it to an appointment have your PICC maintained, tell your care team **IMMEDIATELY**.

Many chemotherapy drugs are powerful immunosupressants, as are steroids. Your body is at a much greater succeptability to illness and infection when undergoing cancer treatment- therefore, it is important to minimize contact with large crowds (flying should always be approved by your oncologist) and those recovering from illness. **Get to an emergency department immediately if you experience a fever over 38°**. Otherwise, if you experience any other symptoms of illness that are not normal after receiving your chemotherapy, contact your care team ASAP.

Palliative care and symptom management are an important aspect of your recovery and improving your quality of life. If any symptoms are not managed, partially or otherwise, by current precriptions, side effects are unbearable or the effects outweigh the benefits, or new problems occur, do not hesitate to reach out to your care team.

If you have any questions or concerns about your treatment plan, your cancer, or otherwise, reach out to your care team [see business card attached] or the 24/7 oncology nurse hotline.

You are not alone in your fight against cancer. There are resources available for all those touched by a cancer diagnosis- whether you are a patient struggling with the effects of treatment, a loved one accepting a negative prognosis, or an overwhelmed caregiver. Please reach out if you need any assistance. A complete list of resources is available via our website, and the 24/7 oncology nurse hotline is always there to answer any questions you may have, whether they are directly about cancer treatment or otherwise.


	14. Chapter 14

The door clicks open under Charles's palm, and he's not particularly surprised to see his apartment mostly dark. His flight didn't get in that late, but Pyry has never been one to stay up late, and he knows Pierre is probably sleeping off his first few days of radiation sessions. He was supposed to be home earlier, but Charles has never had luck when it comes to flying- and his flight had been delayed for more than a few hours out of schedule.

He picks his suitcase up, gently lifting it over the threshold to prevent the wheels from snagging and making a commotion, dragging it down the hall and into the living room. Pyry's not asleep, but he is stretched out on the couch with something mindless blaring on the TV in the background, casting the only light in the whole apartment.

"Hey," Charles greets, and Pyry looks up and smiles at the Monegasque.

"Oh good, you're home. I think he was getting tired of me being here," Pyry jokes lightly, and Charles smiles too, but it sounds about right for Pierre: ever-stubborn, independent, and not one to be babied by anyone (and _especially_ not Pyry).

"You're staying in Nice, right?" Charles asks, cataloguing the information away when Pyry nods, "You can go if you want. I can take him this week. I don't have to leave for the next race for another two and half weeks."

They're both interrupted by an indignant and groggy voice from the edge of the room. Charles turns towards it, and is surprised to see Pierre standing in the dim light, arms crossed in front of his chest, squinting at them and looking half-asleep with his hair fully askew.

"Stop talking about me like I'm a child you have to take to school," he says, slight disgust tangible in his tone. "I would just take my fucking self if I was allowed to."

"I know you would," Charles soothes, crossing the distance between the two of them and reaching to embrace Pierre. The latter hesitates for a moment before wrapping his arms around Charles's middle, letting the Monegasque press a kiss to his unshaven cheek.

"I'm serious," Pierre continues when they break apart, allowing himself to lean against the door frame, "I hate when you guys treat me like I'm either dying or like a kid who can't do anything for themself."

Pyry and Charles manage slightly guilty glances at each other. Sure, they'd both been smothering Pierre a bit- but he had just started a major arm of his treatment, one known to wear patients out. Charles thought it was only fair that they show concern for the Frenchman.

Pyry swallows thickly, pushing himself off the couch and grabbing his duffel bag off the floor. "Well," he says, daring to break the silence, "If Charles can take you tomorrow, I'll let you be."

"Thank you," Pierre says, voice genuinely grateful.

"_But_," Pyry interjects, "If you need anything, or if anything happens, I expect a phone call. I'll be back next week and we can start working out again. Sound good?"

"Yes, _mother_," Pierre manages sarcastically at the same time Charles sincerely says "_of course_". Pyry rolls his eyes and the escorts himself out of their apartment, grabbing his car keys off the counter as he goes. The door shuts behind him heavily, leaving Pierre and Charles only with themselves.

Charles inhales sharply, turning towards Pierre and reaching for his face, cupping it with both hands.

"Can you be honest with me now about how this is all going?" he asks gently, and Pierre shuffles uncomfortably under his unwavering gaze, one hand gently reaching up to pull Charles's off his face before intertwining their fingers.

"Let's go to bed," Pierre suggests at a whisper, "I'll tell you, but I want to lay down. I don't exactly feel great."

"Okay," Charles says, voice measured and solemn, "You go ahead. I'm gonna turn everything off and change and brush my teeth real quick."

He seems to make record time of it all, strips down to his boxers in what seems like a moment, all the lights and switches off in the blink of an eye. For a moment, Charles stops and looks longingly at his luggage, considers unpacking it now before shaking his head and making it a problem for another time.

Pierre's curled up under the covers and scrolling through his phone when Charles finally gets into the bedroom. He's on the opposite side of the bed he normally does, and Charles takes note of the strange mesh wrapped around the bicep that he's tenderly keeping his weight off of, a blue catheter cap just managing to peek out.

He crawls in next to the Frenchman, who puts his phone onto the side table and manages a tiny smile at Charles. Charles can't help the fondness that washes over him, swears in that very moment he would do almost anything for Pierre.

"What do you want to know about?" Pierre asks, eyes half-lidded. Charles reaches to set a comforting hand against his waist under the covers, feels content when Pierre lets out a relaxed sigh.

"Anything and everything," Charles says, genuinely curious, "Anything you feel comfortable telling me about. If it's what you feel, what the treatment's like, what all you've done this week. I just want to hear your voice."

"How romantic," Pierre says, closing his eyes as the corners of his lips turn up into a smile. "Well, firstly, I feel like shit, so jot that down."

"Yeah?" Charles asks, gently rubbing circles onto Pierre's side from where his hand rests.

"Yes," the Frenchman exhales, smile slipping from his face as he winces, "I'm so tired all the time and it sucks. I can barely do anything at all. The care team said that's normal, and it might get better or it might get worse as treatment goes on."

"Damn," Charles whispers, wanting to say sorry even though he knows it's useless at the moment.

"And I just feel sick all the fucking time," Pierre adds, sounding even more frustrated, "My head hasn't stopped hurting, even when I take pain meds, but it's different than it was before surgery. Feels like my whole brain is being squeezed instead of just one part. I barely eat and when I do, if I don't take all my meds exactly on time, I can barely keep it down. I've already lost weight. It's fucking awful."

Pierre is obviously upset, eyes squeezed shut at he continues, not even granting time for Charles to interject.

"I can't think straight. My brain feels like jelly. And they keep telling me this is all normal, that it might get better or it might not. I hate it," he says, shaking his head against the pillow, "I hate it so much. I don't even feel like myself. I don't even feel like getting out of bed," he half whispers, "And they're like, _just go excercise, it'll help you feel better, just let Pyry help you._ How? I barely have the energy to leave the fucking apartment for the appointments I have to go to."

"Pierre..." Charles says, tugging the Frenchman closer and reaching a hand up to play with his unruly hair. His heart hurts when Pierre gives him a wistful smile, shakes his head again.

"Anyways," Pierre gulps, "anyways, um. This is a thing," he says, lifting up his arm and pulling the sleeve of his T-shirt up to showcase the PICC line peeking out of his bicep, "This tube thing. I forget the official name. So now I don't have to deal with all the needles all the time. It goes to my heart."

"Wow," Charles breathes, reaching to gently touch the mesh around it, pulling away when Pierre flinches back.

"Sorry," Pierre apologizes, "_sorry_, you're fine, I'm just not used to it being there, like, being a part of me yet."

"It's okay," Charles soothes, "I get it. The good news is you're one step closer to being a cyborg like we said we wanted to be as kids, right?"

Pierre laughs, and it sounds sincere- something Charles realizes he took for granted all the years he's known Pierre.

"Tell me about it," the Frenchman says dramatically, "They also have this thing they can put in under your skin right here-" he says, demonstrating on Charles's bare chest, "That they can put chemo into. It's called a port. Thankfully I didn't need one since my line is mostly for blood counts and such."

"That sounds kind of scary," Charles admits, and Pierre nods gravely.

"It's supposed to be super safe, but I just hate the thought of it. Anyways, so you wanted to know about treatment?"

"Yeah," Charles assures, "Tell me more."

"So I take my steroid before we leave. When we get there I go into this room, and it's _always_ cold, I don't know why. They take a little of my blood from the line, and then they give me a dose of the medication that keeps me from throwing up everything after I get the chemo pill. There's this big machine thing that they wheel up to me and like, line up with my head with these foam headrest things-"

"Like a seat fit?"

"Kind of like a seat fit. Then everyone leaves the room except me and they do the radiation for about ten minutes. You can't feel any of it, so that's nice. They come back and give me my chemo pill and I'm usually free to go, unless my line needs to be cleaned. I come home and sleep because the chemo pill makes me feel like crap. I wake up and take more of the _don't throw up_ pill. I eat when I can. Maybe watch a movie or answer texts or do stuff for the team online, just try to be a normal person. On days that aren't completely shit, me and Pyry walk around the block. He wants to take me to the gym," Pierre inhales sharply, "But I don't know. The first day was actually fine, I felt okay, I guess because the chemo pill hadn't started doing anything yet. Just the stuff in my brain."

"That sounds like a lot," Charles manages, and Pierre gives him a tired look.

"Yeah," he sighs, before perking up some. "But Max came over last week. We ordered shitty food and played the Xbox and he told me about all the drama between him and Alex because they used team orders. It was kind of nice, like old times."

"Yeah?" Charles asks, trying hard to not bristle at Max's name. He really doesn't care for the Dutchman, but he knows that Pierre is still close with him. If it keeps Pierre happy, Charles supposes he could deal.

"Mhm. Oh, and Dany called and offered to come see me and take me to appointments if I need someone. And to catch me up," Pierre yawns, his eyes closing once more, "Catch me up on the team crap. They're trying to contract Naoki to take my seat for the whole season now, but I don't think he wants to leave GT racing. We'll see, I guess."

"Yeah," Charles breathes, knowing full well he sounds repetitive but not caring. "Let's go to sleep. I'm jetlagged and I know you have your appointment early tomorrow."

Pierre doesn't say anything else, just snuggles closer to Charles, cradling the arm with the PICC line over his chest. He's out like a light- Charles doesn't even get the chance to say goodnight before Pierre is snoring away. His cheekbones, maybe a bit more prominent than normal, are gently lit by the street- and moonlight, his face perfectly content in rest. Charles is so ridiculously smitten, even by this Pierre that's wading through the depths of incurable disease, that it hurts down to the pit of his abdomen to think of a world where Pierre isn't right there, sleeping like everything is normal beside him.

_"Je t'aime,"_ he whispers, smiling when Pierre stops snoring and continues to sleep even more peacefully, more quietly. "We're gonna get through this," he says even more softly, before drifting out of consciousness.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre catches the flu. Charles is a sweetheart. That's it, that's the chapter.

When Charles wakes, he's not startled by the fact that Pierre isn't next to him in bed. 

The doctors had finally managed to sort his doses and medications out, after at least one total breakdown that involved Pierre sobbing until he was gasping for air, begging for something to make him feel better or kill him already, exhausting to the point that it that lead to him sleeping for at least sixteen hours straight afterwards (much to Charles's abject horror). Four and a half weeks through his radiotherapy, and now instead of spending most of his time napping and oblivious to the world outside their bedroom, Pierre finally had the near-constant nausea contained (after trying three different medications and a "just in case this doesn't work" pill at roughly the same time), the headaches mostly managed (although on some days where he overexerted himself, they came back worse than before), and his energy levels had risen exponentially. He still often had bad days that left him feeling awful in one way or another, days where he could barely drag himself out of bed, but Charles had caught him getting up earlier and going for morning walks, before the streets of Monte-Carlo became too crowded and dangerous for his impaired immune system. Pyry had been excited to see the Frenchman return to something close to routine when it came to exercising, but Charles was just happy to see Pierre looking cheerful again, and when he had walked into the kitchen last Saturday morning to see Pierre pulling a pan of cinnamon rolls out of the oven and singing along to some older pop song playing from tinny phone speakers that Charles only vaguely recognized, he had to hold back the tears of absolute joy and relief.

But now, as he creeps past the bathroom with the door slightly ajar and the light still on despite the significantly darker living room, there's more of a sense of dread. When he's feeling well, Pierre has a tendency to open every blind in the flat and let sunshine pour in, even at the cost of the air conditioning bill rising tenfold, and this is decidedly not that. The dread comes to a fever pitch when Charles sees a silhouette on the couch, curled up facing away from the rest of the room and a blanket wrapped tightly around.

"Pierre?" Charles half-whispers, and the lump of Frenchman on the couch lets out a pathetic groan. "What's wrong?"

"Don't feel good," Pierre says hoarsely, sniffling pitifully to prove the point. "I feel like I was run over by a bus. My throat and my head and my stomach all hurt really bad, and I'm so-" he stops for a second, pausing to hold his breath and will away a sneeze, "so cold."

Charles crosses the distance, gently running his fingers over Pierre's forehead to brush his chemo-thinning hair away at the same time as checking his temperature, and he's startled by the heat of Pierre's skin.

"I'm gonna get the thermometer real quick," he says worriedly, and Pierre just sighs as a response, "I think you're gonna have to miss your RT appointment today, love. Gonna have to go see the doctor for this though."

Pierre tries to laugh but it just causes him to cough, and Charles winces at the sharp sounds of his breaths. "You think?" he croaks, tugging further at the blanket. Charles can just make out the tremors in the material from Pierre shivering.

He rushes to the bathroom, grabbing the thermometer the cancer center had sent home with him from the cabinet and popping one of the included disposable covers on it. Pierre shakes his head but takes the thermometer anyways, shoving it under his tongue while Charles gently rubs comforting motions against his back. When it finally beeps, Charles takes the stick before Pierre gets the chance to see it and deny it, and he's more than a little freaked out at the tiny screen reading 38.9°.

"You're really warm," Charles says, tapping one hand against his own face anxiously, "Do you feel well enough to get dressed? I'm gonna call the doctor but I'm sure I need to take you in for a fever that high."

Pierre grumbles a bit in protest, but he rolls over and forces himself to his feet, grabbing onto Charles's shoulder to steady himself a bit before shuffling back to their bedroom, still wrapped in a blanket. If Charles wasn't so concerned, he'd find it terribly endearing.

Pierre's oncologist is on speed dial; they had made many a call before trying to determine if any of his symptoms were a cause for concern or not- and, so far, this was probably the first time Charles felt like Pierre's physical wellbeing was an emergency. 

A nurse picks up soon after, speaking soothing French, and listens intently while Charles lists off Pierre's symptoms and their sudden onset, even waits when he covers up the mic and yells "you got your flu shot last time, right?" to Pierre in the bedroom, who lets out a softer "_mm-hm_" in response.

"_On dirait qu'il à la grippe_," she says anyway, "_mais venez quand même, nous pouvons tester pour être sûr_." It's exactly the answer Charles anticipated, and he feels a bit soothed as Pierre re-enters the living room in an entirely unseasonal hoodie and a pair of joggers, flopping down on the couch and tucking himself into Charles's side.

"_D'accord_," Charles responds, listening to her instructions intently, "_Merci. Arrive bientôt,_" he manages, before hanging up the phone.

"Hey," he says, intonation slighly gentler as he rouses Pierre from where he's dozed off against his shoulder, "Come on, we're going to Nice. They need to test to make sure you don't have an infection that can get to your blood."

Pierre doesn't fight, just lets himself be dragged into the Ferrari parked downstairs without a word- perhaps the most startling part, as Charles is used to the Frenchman constantly fighting and stubbornly refusing to be taken care of like a child, but now he's silent and compliant, and falls asleep against the window of the car in the short drive.

The nurse that greets them at the lobby is not one of the ones that usually services the radiation appointments; when he explains Pierre was due for one of those today, she gives an understanding smile and assures they'll figure it out and reschedule.

"_Ah, salut Pierre_," she says to the flushed Frenchman, and he nods accordingly but doesn't speak. "_Revenez, nous allons commencer ces tests_," she gestures at Charles with one hand before resting it on Pierre's shoulder to guide him, "_Tu aussi._"

It's a dreadful flashback, being walked into the depths of an emergency department not too dissimilar to the FIA ones, and Charles heart pangs when he thinks about that damn sterile hallway in Australia that brought them into this situation.

In the end, Pierre lets them shove another thermometer under his tongue (but rolls his eyes dramatically at Charles, which is relieving) and a swab down his throat, lets them gently roll up his hoodie sleeve to gain access to his PICC line (and recieves a lot of compliments on the sleek black sleeve with a specialized pocket for the caps that he'd bought to replace the useless tubi-grip and mesh ones they had given him in the first few weeks) and not only take a few tubes of his blood for a complete test and culture, but also lets them hook him up to a drip to preventatively give antibiotics and combat his moderate dehydration, and even manages to close his eyes and start to drift off on the examination bed, even as the machines beep around him and an active tube sticks out of his arm.

In the end, the tests and the blood culture already confirm what they all assumed- nothing bacterial, no sepsis, no infection or emolism of his PICC line, just a nasty case of the flu, but caught soon enough to be treated with Tamiflu and lots of rest, hopefully complication free.They give him the box of medication, another to add onto the list, and tell him to take it with his Decadron with food or it'll make his stomach hurt even more and make him feel like throwing up, tell both to not hesitate with calling if anything changes or worsens, and sends them off. Charles is shocked at how streamlined it all seems- everytime he's been in to a non-oncological emergency department it takes twice as long to reach a conclusion.

Pierre stays quiet as they get back into the car, eyes glassy and unfocused. They'd given him Tylenol to reduce his fever and some of his aches and pains, but obviously it hadn't started to run its course yet. Charles reaches over the center console and shift knob to grab Pierre's hand and squeeze- and the Frenchman gives him a weak, tiny smile that makes Charles heart both ache with sympathy and soar with sheer affection.

Pierre coughs, dragging his hand away to shield his mouth with an elbow, and it's a harsh sound that escapes his lungs. "I feel like shit. I hope your flu shot works better than mine, because this sucks," he says truthfully.

"I'll be okay, I won't get sick," Charles assures, "But let's go home. You need rest."

When they get back to the apartment, Charles forces Pierre into the shower with him, the tepid water cooling Pierre's fever off slightly as he leans against Charles and lets the Monegasque gently shampoo and rinse his hair. Pierre's tired, just wants to lay down and sleep for as long as be possibly can, but Charles won't let him until he showers and eats and gets his meds down. He makes a simple bowl of oatmeal for Pierre and some eggs for himself while the Frenchman gets dressed and shaves, pulling Pierre's meds out of the 7-day labelled pillbox on the counter and setting them next to the bowl.

Pierre looks a little perkier when he gets into the living room, no longer shivering, his hoodie switched out for a shirt he stole from Charles months ago and the same set of joggers he wore earlier. He still sounds awful, especially when he coughs, but it's relieving to see there's light in his eyes that wasn't there this morning. He plops down in the chair opposite Charles in the dining room and gives him a slight smile, tipping his spoon into the bowl and taking a few tentative bites, swallowing thickly.

"Thank you for letting me take care of you," Charles says candidly, knowing Pierre would normally resist being coddled like this, "I hate seeing you feel bad."

Pierre sets his spoon back in the bowl after a couple bites, appetite utterly gone for more reasons than one, and looks up, locking his gaze with Charles.

"Thanks for putting up with me," he murmurs softly, "I know it's not easy all the time. I'm trying, I promise." 

Charles chews the inside of his cheek, guilt gnawing away at his stomach. They'd fought over Pierre's will to take care of himself barely a week prior after Charles had seen just how much weight he'd lost from barely eating, and it lead to a knock-down, drag-out argument, one that had Pierre leave and stay with Max for a few days. Now, it feels different- Pierre's _perfect_, he's fighting, Charles is sure of it, even when he's grossly ill with the flu, even when he's pissed off and won't speak to them because of every other shit situation he and his body are put through.

"I know you are, and I'm proud," Charles finally says, taking Pierre's still mostly full bowl and dropping it into the sink, water running through it and chasing oatmeal down the drain, "Take your meds and we can go to bed."

Pierre complies, chasing the handful of pills with half a glass of orange juice. Charles is wiping off his hands when he feels Pierre's weight leaning heavily on his back, arms wrapped loosely around his waist. 

"Come on," he mumbles, turning around in Pierre's embrace, "You need to sleep," slowly leading them back to the bedroom and under the warm covers. Pierre curls up in front of him, comfortably easing into being the little spoon, and Charles pulls him close, one hand tracing patterns onto the warm skin of Pierre's tummy.

"When I get better," Pierre croaks, voice slightly slurred by the effects of drowsiness, "Let's get married. I want our wedding to be in Italy. Good food and weather. Let's invite Dany and Daniel and Max and Alex and Seb and your brothers and..." he trails off, yawning.

Charles laughs, tucking himself into the crooks of Pierre's body like a perfectly cut puzzle piece. "Is this a fever dream or a marriage proposal?" he jokes, but Pierre is entirely serious when he says "yes", not clarifying either proposition.

"I'll...get you a ring," he laughs, "I'll propose to you somewhere pretty so your mom can have the picture framed for her wall. I know she'd love that."

"Yeah," Charles whispers, "Yeah, she _would_ love that. I'd say yes right now though, even in this bed."

"I'm not getting fucking married half-bald," Pierre says gravely, "Not happening. You'll have to wait 'til chemo is over. Sorry, babe."

"That's okay. I want you to feel your best if..." Charles corrects himself, "When we get married."

"Yeah," Pierre smiles, slowly drifting off into sleep, and Charles feels his eyelids growing heavy too, "that sounds...perfect..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> coastcity writes a chapter with these two falling asleep in each others arms again...wow originality.  
anyways, next chapter will be Happy, but i wrote and rewrote this 4 times before just saying fuck it and leaving it as is. trash me if it's awful. im in quarantine, i can find time to rewrite.
> 
> french translations via google:  
On dirait qu'il à la grippe, mais venez quand même, nous pouvons tester pour être sûr. -> it looks like he has the flu, but bring him in anyway, we can test to be sure  
D'accord. Merci, arrive bientôt -> Okay. Thank you, be there soon.  
Revenez, nous allons commencer ces tests -> come back, let's start the these tests  
tu aussi -> you too


	16. patient record #3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One visit to the emergency department later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> man having no practical background in medicine makes this so hard sometimes, reading case studies and medical journals just to write fic is something i never thought i'd get into but here i am....neck deep in a case study of influenza B in healthy males so i can peep what the vitals might be.  
anyways, i'm sure this isn't the happy chapter anyone wanted BUT flu is an emergency in lots of immunocompromised populations and unfortunately i am partially a slave to achieving some level of medical realism...so sorry everyone who has no medical knowledge reading this who thinks im being anal retentive and so sorry to everyone who has medical knowledge who can see right thru all my research mistakes.....i'm trying i promise!!  
the next few chapters are legitimately nicer because i am Tired of making pierre suffer and also i want to write ppl who arent just charles and pierre so uh happy times await. seb is in the next chapter!!

_PATIENT COPY_

**EMERGENCY AND DISCHARGE RECORD**

Name [First, Last] : Gasly, Pierre

DOB: 07/02/1996

Age: 24 

Admission Date/Time [DD/MM/YYYY, HH:MM]: 01/05/2020, 07:36

Patient Accompanied?** ×Y** N

Patient Status on Admission: conscious, verbal

Resp. Rate: 28bpm

BP: 135/80

Pulse: 100 bpm

Temp.: 40.4

Primary Complaint: Patient is immunocompromised and on chemotherapy [_last dose 30/04/2020_]. Patient diagnosed with Influenza B, symptoms and fever worsened overnight, including severe headache and pain w/ inhalation. Oncologist rec. testing for sepsis and pneumonia, observational stay.

[_See Medical Record Release Form and information sent from last healthcare provider_]

Background: Patient is currently undergoing radiation/chemotherapy at CAL for a solid brain tumor/aggressive malignancy. Patient previously very healthy prior to malignancy; last occupation was as a professional athlete/racing driver. Patient developed acute flu-like symptoms and a relatively high fever approx. 5 days ago, advised to go to oncological center's emergency department to test for septicaemia/bacterial infection. Influenza B confirmed by rapid flu test, patient given IV fluids for moderate dehydration, 5 day cycle of olsetamivir (Tamiflu) and acetominophen to reduce fever before being discharged. Patient seemed to improve for ~2-3 days, before fatigue and myalgia grew worse; approx. 3 days after diagnosis, patient experienced nausea and bouts of emesis (<6 in 24 hr. period) along w/ worsening classic respiratory flu symptoms (partner described cough as "non-stop for two days straight", along w/ patient's complaint of sore throat and painful sinuses) and couldn't finish medication schedule. Patient was brought to ED by partner after fever spiked over 40 degrees while sleeping; no longer emetic but complaining of severe headache, chills, and mild chest pain when inhaling. Patient fully conscious and verbal but obviously unwell/in pain. Skin was pale, clammy, and warm to the touch, and partner expressed distress at abnormally quick heart rate. When listening to inhalation, no 'crackling' in lungs was present. Patient should be considered HIGH RISK of complications and secondary infection. 

**NOTE: PATIENT PREVIOUSLY CONFIRMED FOR INFLUENZA, SHOULD BE CONSIDERED HIGHLY CONTAGIOUS. CONTACT AND DROPLET PROCEDURES TO BE FOLLOWED.**

Current medications:

_[All oral unless otherwise stated, but patient has peripherally-inserted central catheter for blood testing and emergency medication purposes]_

Temodal (temozolomide) 75mg/m^2/day

Decadron (dexamethosone)* 4mg once daily

Emend (aprepitant) 80mg thrice daily, once a week

Zofran (odansetron) 8mg twice daily

Tamiflu (olsetamivir) 75 mg twice daily (finished 2 days of cycle)

Acetominophen 325mg

**_According to last healthcare provider, occasional lorazepam (1mg) for anxiety and breakthrough CINV. Patient says last dose was taken greater than a month ago. Noted for its high reactivity w/other possible sedative drugs._

* _Patient has been on corticosteroid for >6 weeks, must be monitored for withdrawal and gradually eased back into daily dosage + increased rec. if necessary._

_Tests given: CBC, blood culture, chest x-ray and CT, lab confirmed flu test_

Diagnosis: No early signs of sepsis or pneumonia from blood culture or chest diagnostics, however pluera showed degree of inflammation (likely cause of chest discomfort), and very mild inflammation of bronchi. Both should be handled as rapidly as possible to prevent further lower respiratory tract infections. In addition, CBC showed (expected) neutropenia, and abnormally high viral load considering the prescription of Tamiflu. Secondary lab-confirmed flu test once more showed positive for Influenza B. Due to bouts of nausea/emesis combined with loss of appetite patient was moderately dehydrated and vitamin levels were overall low. Pulse oximeter readings showed 94% on room air, with some difficulty breathing (due to pain). Patient's oxygen levels should be watched and supplemental oxygen must be provided if any drop occurs below the <92% threshold.

Treatment: Olsetamivir regimen stopped immediately; patient transitioned to IV Rapivab (peramivir) instead. Patient given a time-adjusted dose of acetominophen, alternated every 2 hours w/ ibuprofen to reduce fever and pain. IV sodium chloride .9% given until patient sufficiently rehydrated, also given their usual dose of dexamethosone intravenously. Vitals to be continually monitored, as well as regular blood oxygen level checks to ensure patient doesn't develop worsening lower RT infection. Prophylactic cefazolin given intravenously after viral loads decrease, so as to not overwhelm a compromised immune system further.

Outcome: Patient moved to non-intensive medicine and monitored for ~4 days. Patient's fever reduced gradually from 40.4° to 38.2° within 24 hours, down to 37° within 72 hours. Blood-oxygen initially dropped to 91%, patient was given nitric-oxygen therapy via nasal cannula and soon therafter returned to steady 96%. After infusion of fluids and corticosteroid, patient's most severe symptoms (nausea, headache, chest discomfort) reduced to manageable levels almost immediately. Vitals continued to improve alongside patient's lucidity- by 72 hours, patient only complained of cough, slight chest discomfort, and continued (but profound) fatigue and myalgia. Influenza infection seemed to compound presentation of adverse effects of cancer treatment. Patient was capable of eating a small amount and maintaining fluid balance on his own. At time of discharge, patient's temperature stayed roughly around 36.8 without use of fever-reducing medications. 

_*****Case Notes: Due to exposure to highly virulent strain of flu B, patient's partner given prophylactic dose of baloxivir marboxil (Xofluza) and rapid flu test, which came back negative. Unclear where patient originally picked up infection, as both patient and partner described self-isolation after chemo treatments and rarely having exposure to highly pathogenic venues. Both also recieved annual flu vaccination. Despite unknown origin, case statistics around home address in Monte-Carlo don't show any signs of epidemic or clustering, likely a one-off case._

**DISCHARGE INFORMATION:**

Date: 05/05/2020, 12:43

Resp. Rate: 16bpm

BP: 115/70

Pulse: 65bpm

Temp.: 36.8

Diagnosis at Discharge: Complicated influenza B infection (non-contagious after anti-viral therapy) w/ bronchitis and pleurisy

Outpatient treatment? **×Y** N

Patient should continue to take corticosteroid for pain management; if necessary, acetominophen as well. If cough persists >3 weeks, fever returns (higher than 37.5°), or patient experiences pain when breathing, shortness of breath, or worsening flu-like symptoms, patient should return for emergency treatment IMMEDIATELY. Special care must be taken in cancer treatment sessions to prevent community spread and secondary infection or overwhelming the immune system, w/ advising from oncologist (no less than 1 week after discharge w/ no fever or worsening symptoms before returning to chemo). In addition, a white blood cell boosting medication (pegfilgrastim) after last round of chemo should be considered, due to patient's neutropenia and susceptability to illness. Follow up chest X-ray recommended no more than 6 weeks after discharge to ensure overall health of lungs. Overall, full recovery expected within 4-6 weeks.

**FOR THE PATIENT**:

  * Due to your risk factors, it is important that you continue to rest and recover after discharge. Your hospital practitioner can write an absence note for both work and school upon request; you should give yourself at least a week of time to recover and feel better before going back to work/school. In addition, it remains extremely important that you continue to avoid pathogenic venues (both for your own safety and others!) and practice good hand hygeine to reduce the risk of spreading or catching illness to and from others. If you don't feel well, don't go out.

  * As you are considered a high-risk patient, if any symptoms return or seem to worsen without explanation, do not hesitate to return to the emergency department. Early intervention saves lives! 

  * It is important to continue your medication regimen as normally as possible. If you miss doses or medication seems to be ineffective, call your doctor/oncologist for re-dosing information. Do NOT take medication off schedule to catch up with missed doses without talking to your doctor first.

  * Some home remedies can help you feel better while recovering from a viral infection or while coping with cancer treatments or residual symptoms (i.e. ginger pills for nausea, caffeine for fatigue), but you should always consult your pharmacist to ensure interactions won't occur before changing or adding anything to your treatment regimen.

  * Ask your GP and/or oncologist about high-dose flu vaccines for your next immunization. Higher-dosage inactivated flu vaccines have proven to be more effective than regular inactivated vaccines in at-risk and immunocompromised patients. You should NOT recieve an attenuated (live, nasal) vaccine for the next flu season, and you should avoid close contact with anyone who has received the attenuated vaccine for at least 7 days after their immunization to avoid infections

  * If you have any questions or concerns regarding your treatment, diagnosis, medidations, or any other aspect involving your hospital stay, do not hesitate to reach out and contact us. We can get you in touch with the doctors, nurses, pharmacists, and more that are here to serve you and keep you healthy. 

We wish you the best in recovery and good health moving forward!


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian deserves a trophy for being the best at encouragement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i did it!! a slightly happier chapter!! and the next one or two are even better!! can you believe it??

It's not that he _doesn't_ love Pierre absolutely unconditionally, through thick and thin- he definitely does- but being his primary caregiver while he had been awfully sick had taken its toll on Charles emotionally.

He certainly didn't mind being there with Pierre, no matter how poor of a shape he was in- in fact, he had stayed in bed with the stricken Frenchman as much as he could, eschewing work and workouts alike to comfort him. It didn't really bother Charles, taking care of him at his most miserable and cranky, but he'd be totally lying if he said that getting away from their flat full of germs and constant illness and clinical realities wasn't a welcome reprieve, especially with the sun shining brightly into the Barcelona paddock and warming the red polo sticking slightly to his sweaty back. 

He's not really focused on much as he ambles past the media pen, sunglasses pushed high on his nose and phone in his hand. It's not often that he gets a break from PR on Thursdays, but flying in late that morning seemed to have worked the charm and cleared his schedule.

The weather is too nice to not take advantage of, and it doesn't take but a moment for Charles to find a vacated table outside the Ferrari hospitality, red painted benches glimmering in the sun. He sits down heavily, taking deep breaths of the fresh air blowing through that carries the faint smell of burning rubber and race fuel.

Charles is completely zoned out and lost in thought when he feels the table shift slightly and a pair of eyes seemingly look right through him. His head turns ever so slowly towards whoever just ruined his rare moment of peace, and Charles is taken aback to recognize Seb's familiar gaze.

"Oh," he says, surprise evident in his voice, "Hey, Seb."

"Hey," Sebastian replies cautiously, glancing up and down as if he's sizing Charles up. "Everything okay? You look kind of tired."

Charles inhales sharply, chest constricting as he realizes he doesn't know how to answer that. Sure, things are relatively okay- he's second in the championship, tantalizingly close to Lewis and barely clear of Max and Valtteri, and the Ferrari is rumored to be great around this track.

Things could be _much_ worse, and yet unease sits at the bottom of his stomach like a heavy rock.

"I'm fine," is what Charles settles on telling Sebastian, but the German is certainly wise beyond his years, shakes his head disapprovingly.

"You're a bad liar," Seb supplies, playing with his Ray-Bans resting on the table, "But if you don't want to tell me what's wrong, that's okay. I'm just going to sit here and enjoy this beautiful weather with you."

Charles sighs; he and Seb have had their issues in the past, but it's more like a sibling rivarly- and the German has always been able to read him like an open book, see straight through him.

It's calm for a few moments, shutter clicks of straggling media personnel packing it up for the day and the occasional conversation the only sounds filling the breezy paddock. Charles realizes it's the first time he hasn't heard music blasting from a speaker behind the garages in all his years of racing. The whole scene seems far too serene to be a part of the hectic world of F1.

"It's just been a lot," Charles finally murmurs, "Don't worry about it."

"Do you mean..." Seb trails off, _"Pierre?"_

Charles nods, taking a moment to rub his temples and find the words.

"He's been sick, on top of everything else," Charles pulls his sunglasses off, wearily rubbing at his eyes, "Have _you_ ever had to take your wife or kids to the hospital for the flu before, Seb?"

"Charles-"

"Answer me," the Monegasque demands, _"Never_ in my life have I been in the hospital for the flu," he says, voice disbelieving.

"Me either," Sebastian finally replies, "But he's okay now?"

Charles wants to tear his hair out. As far as he cares right now, everything feels bad, feels like it's crumbling down. Something inside of him aches, in a horrible and existential way.

"He's alright now. He's home. Still sick, but better, "Charles sets his sunglasses onto the table, hands covering his face, "I don't know what to do, Seb!" he groans, voice muffled by his own skin, "I don't know how to take care of him when he's so unwell, half the time I don't even know what to do anyway. He's so stubborn-"

"Wonder who he got that from," Sebastian jokes, and Charles lowers his hands to glare at the German.

"I feel like I'm not doing anything right and he's feeling worse and nothing is getting better at all," Charles chokes out, "I want things to go back the way they were before he was sick. I know that's selfish, and I'm sorry."

Seb reaches out, setting a comforting hand on top of Charles's across the table and giving a gentle but sad smile. Charles tries to reciprocate, but he feels like a fraud.

"Don't apologize. There's nothing selfish or wrong with wanting Pierre to be healthy. That's what's expected of you," Seb supplies, "I'm sure that's what he wants, too." 

"Yeah," Charles sighs, "I just hate it. I want to go back to just worrying about racing. About beating you and Max and Lewis."

"I know," Sebastian comforts, but it's weak.

"I want to go back to worrying about where we were gonna spend the summer break, and not whether we will both make it to see another summer break," Charles's voice trembles, "We were supposed to go back to Santorini this year. Pierre loves it there."

Seb inhales sharply, shaking his head. "I know. It's not fair. It's not fair for either of you to have to deal with this so young." He pauses, as if to think for a moment, before continuing, "Let's go inside." 

Sebastian stands, gently urging the Monegasque opposite him up to his feet. Charles obliges, but shoves his sunglasses back onto his face so his eyes can't be seen by any of the nosy Ferrari personnel they pass. They wander back into the Ferrari hospitality, taking the steps slowly and deliberately all the way up to the driver's rooms, where Seb tugs them both into his and shuts the door solidly behind them, immediately tugging to Monegasque into a hug.

"It's okay," he mumbles into Charles's shoulder, "It's gonna be okay, it's alright."

"But what if it's not, Seb," Charles's voice cracks, "Even Pierre says he'd rather relive _last fucking season_ than keep doing this. I don't want us to keep having to do this."

"You have to keep going, Charles," Seb whispers, "He's a fighter, and so are you. You have to keep going."

It _hurts,_ almost more than anything else Charles has ever experienced. He just wants everything to go back to normal.

Charles inhales, fighting back the tears building in his throat. "I love him, but I don't know if I'm strong enough to be there for him. To get through this, I-"

"You are," Sebastian asserts, "You have already gotten through so much other shit, kid, you've got this. You wouldn't be here, second in the World Championship despite everything else happening to you if you weren't strong enough."

Charles leans back, rubbing the slight tears that had collected at the bottom of his eyes and giving a halfhearted smile.

"Yeah," he says, trailing off, "Yeah..."

"And Pierre," Sebastian shakes his head, "I have never met anyone so nice and personable, yet so stubborn. So..." he struggles for the word, "So _resilient._ Not even Daniil bounced back as quick as Pierre did. I have no doubt he can do this."

"I hope so," Charles says nervously, "I really hope so."

"I know so," Seb grins, "He survived Red Bull's shit, I know he'll survive this." He pauses, patting Charles on the shoulder.

"Are you hungry? I drove myself here this morning, so I have keys to the 458-"

"Let's go, I'm starving," Charles smiles, letting Seb lead them back into the paddock and back into the spring sunshine once more.

Charles is fresh out of the en suite shower of his hotel, towel wrapped around his waist and hair still dripping when the FaceTime alarm on his phone starts blasting through the relative silence. He rolls his eyes initally, but can't keep the smile off his face when he sees Pierre's contact.

"It's Charles," he answers, as if that's not blatantly obvious and they can't see each other. He crosses the room, easily settling into the office chair and plopping his phone against the desk, leaning it against the wall behind, smiling at the dim screen.

"I'd sure hope so," Pierre laughs. His voice is still hoarse, and he still coughs in a way that makes Charles's own lungs ache, but the color's returned to his face and even in the low light, Charles can see the mirth in Pierre's eyes. "How's Barcelona?"

"Good so far," Charles chews his bottom lip, "Would be better if you were here, win some, lose some I guess."

"Homesick much?" Pierre starts in slight disbelief, "But I get it, it's always better when I'm there," he laughs again, the edges of his barking laugh curling up into tiny squeaks. Charles has always appreciated Pierre's laugh for its insight into whether something is genuinely funny to him or not.

"You sound much better today," Charles says lightly, and Pierre shrugs on the screen, "Are you outside?"

"I feel better today. Still achey and tired, but my head's stopped feeling like it's going to explode, and my chest is mostly okay now," Pierre explains, "And yes, me and Pyry are on the balcony doing our best impression of the English," he grins, holding a cup of what Charles can only assume is tea before Charles sees his hand reach up to flip his camera around, "Say hi to Charles, Pyry!"

Pyry looks up from his phone and sets his own cup of tea down on the table, throwing a smile at Pierre's camera and a _"Hey, Charles",_ which seems to satisfy the Frenchman. 

"Hey, Pyry. Good to see you two haven't killed each other yet," Charles laughs, and laughs even harder when Pierre flips the camera around with an indignant _"hey!"_

"That was rude," he pouts, but Charles isn't moved, shaking his head jokingly.

"You both have the hardest heads of anyone I've ever met," Charles supplies, "Maybe that's why you get along so well, when you're not arguing about who's right."

"Maybe so," Pierre agrees, and Charles can see him gesture to Pyry off screen and then pass back through the sliding door. The lights of their apartment make the screen flash white for a moment before it readjusts, and Charles can make out that Pierre has settled in one of the barstools based on the background behind him.

"I talked to Seb for a long time today," Charles murmurs, "We went to dinner together. Said he hopes you feel well soon and he can't wait to have you back on the grid."

"I can't wait to be back on the grid," Pierre sighs, appearing momentarily crestfallen but quickly recovering, "But the good news is that I go back for the last few days of my radiation appointments next Thursday."

"That _is_ good," Charles replies, but before he can say anything else, Pierre cuts him off.

"My last appointment is the Friday of Monaco. You'll be home. Let's have a party," he says softly.

"Let's have a party," Charles agrees, "Anything you want, love."

"I'll have to think about it. About who to invite," the Frenchman says, his voice sounding more like a loud whisper due to his hoarseness, "but I want to celebrate finishing like, two-thirds of this crap. Only chemo left."

"You've got this. Nobody better suited to beat this thing than _you,"_ Charles says proudly, and Pierre smiles sheepishly at his lap. There's something extremely endearing about the image. Charles wants to catalogue it away forever. Instead, he settles for a screenshot.

"I hope you're right," Pierre adds, "Anyways, I just wanted to call to make sure you made it there okay and that you're okay. I know I kind of gave you a scare the other night..."

"It's fine. We both made it, didn't we?" Charles supplies, and Pierre nods, "I love you and I'm here for you, even when you're all gross and coughing on me or puking up your medicine, _Pierrot."_

"Gee, thanks," Pierre says drily, "But I love you too. And if you'll excuse me," he winces, "I need to go get a shower. My hair is so greasy, it's disgusting.

"I wish you were here, or I was there," Charles pouts, "I just got out of the shower. We could've showered together."

"You'll be home soon enough," Pierre says, mischief coloring his tone, "And our shower here has _plenty_ of hot water, if you know what I mean."

"Oh, I _do,"_ Charles smirks, "Save it for when I'm home?"

"No promises. I'll think of you, though," Pierre adds cheekily, before yawning.

"Go get your shower then, asshole," Charles rolls his eyes, his efforts awarded by one of Pierre's brilliant smiles.

"Love you too, Charles. Be careful tomorrow."

"Will do. I'll try to beat Max and Lewis on Sunday," Charles chuckles, "For you and for me. And I'll see you on Monday?"

"I'll probably call you before then," Pierre shrugs, and Charles nods to confirm. 

"Take care, Pierre. See you soon."

"See you soon, too. Goodnight!" Pierre calls, and Charles's phone screen goes red.

It takes him at least two minutes after Pierre's hung up to wipe the goofy smile off his face. It's hard for him not to sigh dreamily when he thinks about the Frenchman, and his lips are still curved upwards when he stands to drag pajamas out of his suitcase, dragging a shirt over his chest and boxers up his legs hastily.

He stops, stares at his phone for a second, lost in thought as he glares down the WhatsApp icon on the corner of his screen for a moment too long before something in his brain switches over to just saying _fuck it._

_Thanks for today,_ he sends to Sebastian, _I really needed it._

Not even a minute later, he gets a reply, brief but straight to the point.

_Anytime. You and P go on and kick some ass, kid._


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A beautiful Friday in Monaco.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a continuation of soft!Charles before i pendulum swing to the exact opposite end of the emotional spectrum with the anger and angst the next couple chapters.

It's a beautiful day in Monte-Carlo.

For a brief moment, Charles forgets it's the Friday of the Grand Prix, is sucked into the picturesque architecture lining the streets and the early-morning light casting long shadows against the sidewalks. For a brief moment, Charles doesn't have to worry about a single thing around him-

The fresh paint on the kerbs and the markings along the street give the illusion away. Charles sighs, not irritated to be brought back into reality but a bit disappointed, tugging the paper bag in his left hand closer and holding it with an elbow while he digs around for the key to the flat.

He barely manages to get the door open and up the stairs without dropping the bag of pastries onto the floor of the foyer; it's definitely a small victory when he sets the bag on the kitchen counter. Pierre's in the shower- Charles can hear the thrum of water against the tile and the Frenchman's always off-pitch singing voice.

It is most certainly one of the most beautiful Fridays in Monaco that Charles has gotten in a long time

He sighs, toeing off his sneakers and discarding them somewhere in the living room, no particular care given to where they land. He's sure Pierre will roll his eyes and nag him for it later, but the Frenchman can't really speak, given his own habit of leaving socks in nearly every corner of the house except for the laundry basket.

Charles is halfway through a glass of orange juice and part of a fruit danish when Pierre finally gets out, fully dressed and hair barely short of dripping, his towel draped over his neck. He's humming the same song he was singing earlier, still butchering it- Charles almost wants to tell him to stop, but he can't bring himself to it.

"Good morning," says Pierre cheerfully, ambling into the kitchen and pressing a soft kiss to Charles's cheek before squeezing past him and to the fridge.

"Morning," Charles replies lightly, "There's lemon poppyseed muffins in the bag for you, from that little corner bakery down the street."

The Frenchman lets out an appreciative hum, reaching for the bag. It's companionable silence that fills their flat while he gently pulls the paper off the muffin in his hand, Charles watching him not at all surreptitiously but with an incalcuable amount of fondness.

"So," Pierre starts conversationally, "What are your plans for today? Do you have any team stuff?" He takes a bite of the pastry and lets out a satisfied noise, Charles barely managing to suppress his laughter at that.

It's the first time in a long time he's seen Pierre enjoying his food and not just eating it for the sake of needing nutrition to continue living, Charles realizes. Pierre's chemo had wreaked havoc on the carefully planned diet he was accustomed to; it was hard to eat enough calories when so often he woke up feeling shitty, nauseated, or otherwise exhausted. His doctor had said that the semi-permanent metal taste in his mouth was a side effect of the trestments, as was his sudden inability to tolerate once familiar meals. Food had gone from a shared pleasure to a nightmare in such a short time; even Charles had struggled to handle his boyfriend's ever-changing nutrition situation.

"I was excused from the team meeting this morning," Charles yawns, shaking his head to clear the last bits of early morning bleariness, "and from the Amber Lounge thing this year."

"Charles-" Pierre interjects, his voice sounding a bit guilty, "You don't have to miss that for me."

The Monegasque just laughs, much to Pierre's confusion.

"Trust me, I'm not complaining about missing that. They do the same thing every year, except I'm sure this year they would've given me a bright red tie instead of a darker one or something," he rolls his eyes, "Anyways, it's your last day of radiation. I already told the team I was gonna spend the day with you." 

Charles shrugs, like it's no big deal that he's turned down some of the biggest PR events of the year at his own home race. He turns to rinse out his empty glass at the exact same moment Pierre's mouth falls agape.

"You didn't need to do that," Pierre protests, but it's weak and Charles is rolling his eyes as soon as the words leave his mouth.

"Don't be stupid," he chides gently, "I'd rather be home with you than dealing with Mattia or whatever team building publicity they were going to try to make me and Seb do today anyways. Have you decided what we're gonna do tonight?"

Pierre sighs, still not feeling quite right about taking Charles away from the spotlight of his home grand prix, but doesn't argue any longer. 

"I was thinking, instead of inviting everyone and worrying about messing up their schedules before tomorrow, you and I could just do something?" he offers.

Charles grins, maneuvering around the kitchen island to enter Pierre's personal space, leaning on the counter right next to the Frenchman and resting his head on a towel-covered shoulder.

"I can do that," he practically purrs, "Just tell me what and where and I'll figure it out."

Pierre smiles himself, reaching down to link their fingers, his eyes falling shut as he rests his cheek against the top of Charles's head.

"Surprise me."

Charles lets Pierre drive to his last radio appointment, despite both the illegality of it all and the genuine fear the Monegasque felt when Pierre had gotten the Pista onto the highway and immediately slammed the gas pedal with a silly smile on his face.

Really, it didn't matter that Pierre's license was invalid until the doctor cleared him, or that he hadn't driven in months. Charles trusts him, maybe a bit too much, and he's certain they could explain their way out of any ticket he'd risked anyway.

The excitement of everyone on Pierre's treatment team in the radio ward was certainly a pleasant surprise. Every doctor and nurse he'd met seemed charmed by the Frenchman, happy to see him doing better than he was in the first few stages of his treatment, and optimistic for his prognosis. For Charles, who had admittedly read far too many web pages and the horrifying detail of the outcomes of cancer patients, the deaths where patients fall asleep with a headache and never wake up, the complete loss of independence many experienced, it felt like his hope was being renewed.

And even when they get back out to the Pista sitting pretty at the end of the lot after the nearly three hours of his appointment, Pierre looks at least happy alongside his usual exhaustion from the treatment, and the handful of pills, and the blood draws he's become so familiar with.

"As dumb as it sounds," he starts when they're back on the road and headed home, eyes shut but a small smile playing on his lips, "I think I'm gonna miss the nurses, and the radiologist. I'm supposed to meet the nurses in charge of my chemo next month, do updated scans."

"I don't think it sounds dumb," Charles murmurs, "I think it makes sense. They're helping you get better, and that's what matters."

"Yeah," Pierre mumbles, barely louder than the engine. He dozes off soon thereafter, unbothered by the traffic that brings them to a standstill just outside the city, Charles impatiently tapping on the wheel to a silent rhythm. Pierre doesn't even wake until the car is firmly parked in the underground garage and he gets gently prodded awake.

"Hey," Charles whispers, "We're home. Come on."

Pierre doesn't fight when he's dragged from the car to the flat, from the front door to the bedroom. He certainly doesn't fight when Charles lays behind him, drawing nonsensical shapes onto the cloth of the shirt on his back. Pierre's soon asleep once more, his breaths soft and even, limbs akimbo and hair messy against the soft grey pillowcase.

Charles, on the other hand, doesn't sleep. He continues to gently stroke the Frenchman's back until he's well and fully out of it, before easing his way carefully out of their warm bed and into the living room, their bedroom falling dark as the door shuts with a quiet creak.

It's been a long few months, and the prospect of six free weeks between now and Pierre's next treatment excites him, as does the fact that his summer break will line up with the first round of chemo. It had been harder than he could've ever imagine- balancing the requirements of their tireless job and the needs of a partner with serious disease- and there had certainly been weekends where Pierre's face on his screen was just not enough, other weekends where he would've killed to have had focus on only beating his rivals and not fretting over someone else's health.

That had become an ongoing sore spot for them both; Pierre had gotten upset, claiming that he was an adult fully capable of managing his own health, even after he had stumbled around their apartment on wobbly legs like a newborn fawn, and Pyry had to practically force him to sit and eat something after particularly rough treatment days to keep him from greying out when standing up. Pierre had snapped, claiming that all they had done was baby him- and maybe Charles was guilty, but who could ever blame him for caring too much?

(Pierre, evidently.)

Even Max had been on the receiving end of the Frenchman's stubborn anger, texting him to ask "how are you feeling today?" at precisely the wrong moment.

Charles snorts. Maybe Max deserved the paragraph rant in some form of angry French-English he received.

Really, Pierre's pissiness and stubborn nature probably just endeared Charles to him even further. He's a fighter, goddamnit; Charles wouldn't want it any other way.

He's sighs, no longer spaced out with an elbow resting on the kitchen counter. _Tonight,_ Charles remembers, wrestling with the idea of going against Pierre's wishes and inviting half the grid to celebrate. It takes more than a single moment for him to decide against it, figuring the Frenchman's immune system is probably too weak to handle whatever germs they'd all drag in. It doesn't stop him from feeling sad when he recalls Pierre quietly telling him how much he misses doing stupid media work with Dany, how the Russian used to open up and end up giving Pierre the best wisdom despite the miniscule age gap. How much misses sitting with Alex in the Energy Station and enjoying a peaceful breakfast, talking about the world they grasp for outside of racing. How he misses joking with Carlos and Lando and Daniel and their combined immaturity during drivers' briefings, chatting with George on the truck during driver parade. Spending time with the only other people who understand the life they live.

"_I even miss Esteban a little_," he had half-laughed, half-whispered on the way home from an appointment.

It feels like his chest is imploding when Charles remembers precisely how much Pierre had lost and still had to lose in the whole ordeal, how much of his identity was wrapped up in an F1 seat that he may never be able to occupy again.

More than anything else, Charles hopes Pierre gets well enough to get back to racing. He even thinks he'd take out a teammate again, this time purposely, just to see the Frenchman back on the podium.

Charlea sighs, pulls up Google and pushes as much of the negativity to the unoccupied side of his brain as he can, out of focus. He's got some planning to do.

By the time Pierre's awake, the sun is setting and leaving watercolor streaks of orange and yellow glitter on the harbor, slowly sinking below the horizon. For the first time in a while, he feels refreshed from sleeping and not just slightly less tired, which certainly seems like a good sign. 

There's a handwritten note in Charles's ugly, near illegible scrawl sitting on the bedside table next to Pierre's phone, and he squints to read it.

_Morning Sleeping Beauty. Get dressed and meet me in the kitchen. Wear something nice, but not TOO nice. xox_

Charles may not be much of a romantic writer, far too reliant on the cliches, but Pierre can't help but feel completely endeared to his dumb boyfriend. It seems a quintessential Charles behavior to write a note instead of sending a text, or literally just telling Pierre face-to-face, considering he's just in the next room over. Pierre rolls his eyes, but digs through his closet regardless.

Quickly he's dressed and he's managed to get his unruly, slightly patchy hair into something a bit more presentable, and when he wanders into the kitchen, his boyfriend is leaning against the island, delicately sipping from a glass of ice water.

"Sleep well?" he grins when Pierre walks in, meeting the Frenchman halfway and getting pulled into an embrace.

"Yep," Pierre replies when they break away, the corners of his own lips turned up slightly. Charles is dressed well in a baby blue button up tucked under a smart blazer; Pierre feels slightly underdressed in his familar striped button up, but neither seems bothered by it.

"That's good," Charles says softly, "I didn't plan anything too fancy tonight, so like, sorry if you were expecting a-"

"Shut up," Pierre laughs, "You know I'm good with anything as long as it's with you."

Charles blushes, his cheeks turning slightly pink as he reaches down to squeeze Pierre's waist. 

"Close your eyes," he says, and the Frenchman obliges, arms crossing in front of his chest as he gets turned around and slowly walked through the flat and into the evening air.

He can predict that they're on the balcony- that much is very clear- but what he doesn't expect when he opens his eyes is a perfectly set table where the patio furniture usually is. A single candle burns between the two chairs, a bottle of red wine and two glasses. It looks so picturesque that Pierre can't quite believe it's real.

"Surprise," Charles says softly, "I figured that maybe going out right now was maybe not the best idea since it's the busiest weekend of the year, but up here we can see it all without having to deal with people being nosy."

Traffic dots the road with white and red lights. Pierre can see crowds on the street, rented Porsches navigating familiar curves, boats and jetskis leaving wakes in the blue water. Somewhere below, a horn honks, a man yells, an engine revs. Monaco comes to life around them.

"I also ordered food," Charles says sheepishly, "Because I'm a hopeless cook unless you're helping."

Pierre's still struggling to find any words, but thankfully, he has actions. Charles seems shocked when he surges forward and their lips are sloppily pressed together, but he melts into it, smiling when Pierre's hands find the back pockets of his pants and he gives a cheeky squeeze.

"Thank you," the Frenchman murmurs, their foreheads still pressed together. Charles is still panting. "Thank you, thank you, thank you. _Merci, mon cher."_

"Don't thank me," Charles finally manages, laughing a bit. "Would I do this for anyone else?"

"I don't know, maybe Lewis so you can soften him up to win the championship?"

"Shut up," Charles sighs dramatically, "Besides, I fully anticpate you'll make it up to me later tonight," he grins, and gets a mischievious eyebrow raise in return.

Pierre's eyes focus on the city far below when they sit, through the clear perspex railing, Charles carefully pouring him a glass of wine and scooting it over the table.

"You only get one 'til the doctor clears you," he reminds Pierre when he reaches for it eagerly, "Better enjoy it wisely."

"Yes, mother," Pierre groans, before perking up. "Toast?"

"Sure. To what?"

Pierre only takes a moment's pause, but his response makes Charles heart swell with pride.

"To the future."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as y'all might have seen, I've stepped away from writing/publishing as much,  
i've had a hell of a lot going on in my life lately, which unfortunately had reduced the amount of time i have to write, and its been compounded by nasty writers block (this chapter has gone through probably 6 different iterations before i just settled on finishing this one), so not much updating, but i promise i havent abandoned this (or any of my works, even my very first ones that havent been touched in some time). as soon as i get a handle on everything again i'll try to be back to a more regular publishing schedule. i have a lot in the pipeline that just needs to be finished up.  
(i have an extremely self indulgent equestrian AU hidden away in the drafts. tried my hand at some max/lando and i love the gamer boyfriends. i may get around to publishing these soon!)  
and, as always, thank you so much for reading and any feedback. on this work in particular in this current time frame it means the whole world to me <3

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to everyone for reading, all feedback is appreciated!


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